UCSB  LIBRARY 


MORE  BEETLES 


BOOKS  BY  J.  HENRI  FABRE 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SPIDER 
THE  LIFE  OF  THE  FLY 

THE  MASON-BEES 
BRAMBLE-BEES  AND  OTHERS 

THE  HUNTING  WASPS 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE   CATERPILLAR 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  GRASSHOPPER 

THE  SACRED  BEETLE  AND  OTHERS 

THE  MASON-WASPS 
THE  GLOW-WORM  AND  OTHER  BEETLES 

MORE   HUNTING  WASPS 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  WEEVIL 

MORE  BEETLES 


MORE   BEETLES 


BY 


J.  HENRI  FABRE 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 
FELLOW  OF  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  SOCIETY  OF  LONDON 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED    IW   U.    H.    A. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

This,  if  we  count  The  Life  of  the  Weevil 
as  the  third,  is  the  fourth  and  last  volume  on 
Beetles  in  the  Collected  English  Edition  of 
Fabre's  entomological  works.  The  first  was 
entitled  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others;  the 
second  The  Glow-worm  and  Other  Beetles. 

Of  the  fourteen  chapters,  part  of  the  four 
devoted  to  the  Minotaur  appeared,  in  an 
abbreviated  form,  in  The  Life  and  Love  of 
the  Insect,  prepared  by  myself  for  Messrs. 
Adam  and  Charles  Black  and  published  in 
America  by  the  Macmillan  Co.  Similarly, 
The  Pine  Cockchafer  and  the  two  chapters  on 
the  Gold  Beetles  occur  in  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin's 
Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World  (published  in 
America  by  the  Century  Co.),  translated  by 
Mr.  Bernard  Miall,  whom  I  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  thanking  for  his  assistance  in  the 
translation  of  the  present  volume.  These 
seven  chapters  are  included  in  the  Collected 
Edition  by  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
named. 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS. 

CHELSEA,  29  September,  1921. 


CONTENTS 


TRA> 

CHAPTI 
I 

fSLATOR's  NOTE         .        ... 

:E 
THE  CETONL/E 

PAGE 

V 
I 

II 

SAPRINI,  DERMESTES  AND  OTHERS 

34 

III 

THE   BEADED  TROX       

55 

IV 

MINOTAURUS       TYPHCEUS  :       THE 
BURROW         

72 

v 

MINOTAURUS      TYPHCEUS:      FIRST 
TEMPTS  AT  OBSERVATION    . 

98 

VI 

MINOTAURUS       TYPHCEUS:       FUR- 
THER  OBSERVATIONS     . 

125 

VII 

MINOTAURUS    TYPHCEUS:    MORAL- 
ITY           

152 

VIII 

THE   ERGATES;   THE  COSSUS    . 

172 

IX 

THE   PINE  COCKCHAFER    . 

194 

X 

XI 

THE    VEGETARIAN    INSECTS      . 
THE  DWARFS    .        .        .        . 

215 
238 

XII 

SOME   ANOMALIES          .        .        . 

255 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII  THE  GOLD  BEETLES  :  THEIR  FOOD  .  278 

XIV  THE  GOLD  BEETLES:  THEIR  NUP- 

TIAL HABITS 299 

INDEX 317 


MORE  BEETLES 


CHAPTER     I 

THE    CETONLE 

MY  hermitage  boasts  a  long,  wide  lilac- 
walk.  When  May  is  here  and  the 
two  rows  of  bushes,  bending  beneath  their 
load  of  clustering  blooms,  form  pointed 
arches  overhead,  this  walk  becomes  a  chapel, 
in  which  the  loveliest  festival  of  the  year  is 
celebrated  beneath  the  kisses  of  the  morning 
sun:  a  peaceful  festival,  with  no  flags  flap- 
ping at  the  windows,  no  expenditure  of  gun- 
powder, no  drunken  squabbles;  a  festival  of 
simple  creatures  disturbed  neither  by  the 
harsh  brass  band  of  the  dance  nor  by  the 
shouts  of  the  crowd  acclaiming  the  amateur 
who  has  just  won  a  silk  handkerchief  at  the 
hop,  skip  and  jump.  Vulgar  delights  of 
drinks  and  crackers,  how  far  removed  are 
you  from  this  solemn  celebration! 

I  am  one  of  the  worshippers  in  the  chapel 
of  the  lilacs.  MV  orison,  which  cannot  be 
translated  into  words,  is  a  tender  and  inti- 
mate emotion.  Devoutly  I  make  my  sta- 
tions from  one  column  of  verdure  to  another, 


More  Beetles 

telling  step  by  step  my  observer's  rosary. 
My  prayer  is  an  "Oh!"  of  admiration. 

To  this  delicious  festival  pilgrims  have 
hastened,  to  gain  the  Lenten  indulgences  and 
to  slake  their  thirst.  Here,  dipping  their 
tongues  by  turns  into  the  holy-water  stoup  of 
the  same  flower,  are  the  Anthophora  x  and 
her  tyrant  the  Melecta.2  Robber  and  vic- 
tim sip  their  nectar  like  good  neighbours. 
There  is  no  ill-feeling  between  them.  Both 
attend  to  their  own  affairs  in  peace.  They 
seem  not  to  know  each  other. 

The  Osmiae,3  clad  in  black-and-red  velvet, 
dust  their  ventral  brushes  with  pollen  and 
make  hoards  of  meal  in  the  reeds  round 
about.  Here  are  the  Eristales,4  noisy, 
giddy-pated  insects,  whose  wings  shimmer  in 
the  sun  like  scales  of  mica.  Drunk  with 
syrup,  they  withdraw  from  the  festival  and 
sleep  off  their  debauch  in  the  shadow  of  a 
leaf. 

1  One  of  the   wild   Bees.     Cf.   The  Mason-bees,  by  J. 
Henri  Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mat- 
tos:    chap,    viii;    and    Bramble-bees    and    Others,    by    J. 
Henri  Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mat- 
tos:   chaps,  ii.,   iv.   and   vii. — Translator's  Note. 

2  A  parasitic  Bee.     Cf.     The  Mason-bees:  chap.  viii. — 
Translator's  Note. 

3  For  these   wild   bees,   cf.   Bramble-bees   and   others: 
passim. — Translator's   Note. 

4  Drone-flies. — Translator's  Note. 

2 


The  Cetoniae 

These  others  are  Wasps,  Polistes,1  hot- 
tempered  swashbucklers.  When  these  intol- 
erant creatures  are  abroad,  peaceful  insects 
withdraw  and  establish  themselves  else- 
where. Even  the  Hive-Bee,  predominating 
in  numbers  and  ever  ready  to  unsheathe  her 
sting,  makes  way  for  them,  busy  as  she  is 
gathering  in  the  harvest. 

These  thick-set,  richly  variegated  Moths 
are  Sesiae,  with  wings  not  dusted  with  scales 
throughout.  The  bare  zones,  like  so  much 
transparent  gauze,  contrast  with  the  covered 
zones  and  are  an  added  beauty.  The  sober 
sets  off  the  magnificent. 

Here  is  a  crazy  swarm,  eddying,  receding, 
returning,  rising  and  falling.  It  is  the  ballet 
of  the  common  Butterfly-folk,  the  Cabbage 
Butterflies,2  all  white,  with  black,  eye-shaped 
dots.  They  flirt  in  mid-air,  pursuing  and 
pressing  their  attentions  on  one  another,  un- 
til, weary  of  frolic,  now  one,  now  another 
of  the  dancers  alights  once  more  upon  the 

1  Cf.   The  Hunting   Wasps,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  trans- 
lated by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chap.  vii. ;   and 
The  Mason-Wasps,  by  J.    Henri    Fabre,    translated    by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  ix  and  x. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

2  Cf.     The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chap.  xiv. — 
Translator's  Note. 

3 


More  Beetles 

lilacs,  quenching  her  thirst  from  the  am- 
phorae of  the  flowers.  While  the  proboscis 
dives  down  the  narrow  throat  of  the  blos- 
som, sucking  the  nectar  at  the  base,  the 
wings,  gently  fluttering,  are  raised  above  the 
back,  expanding  anew  and  again  standing 
erect. 

Almost  as  numerous  but  less  sudden  in 
flight,  because  of  his  wide-spreading  wings, 
is  the  Machaon,  the  magnificent  Swallow- 
tail Butterfly,  with  the  orange  spots  and  the 
blue  crescents. 

The  children  have  come  to  join  me. 
They  are  enraptured  by  this  elegant  crea- 
ture, which  always  escapes  their  pouncing 
hands  and  flies  a  little  farther  to  taste  the 
nectar  of  the  flowers  while  moving  its  wings 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Cabbage  Butterfly. 
If  the  pump  is  working  quietly  in  the  sun- 
light, if  the  syrup  is  rising  easily,  this  gentle 
fanning  of  the  wings  is  in  all  these  Butter- 
flies a  sign  of  satisfaction. 

A  catch!  Anna,  the  youngest  of  the 
whole  household,  gives  up  all  hope  of  cap- 
turing the  Swallow-tails,  who  never  wait  for 
her  nimble  little  hand  to  seize  them.  She 
has  found  something  more  to  her  liking.  It 
is  the  Cetonia.  The  handsome  insect  has 


The  Cetoniae 

not  yet  recovered  from  the  chill  of  morning; 
it  lies  slumbering  all  golden  on  the  lilac- 
blossoms,  unconscious  of  danger,  incapable 
of  flight.  It  is  plentiful.  Five  or  six  are 
quickly  caught.  I  intervene,  so  that  the 
rest  may  be  left  in  peace.  The  booty  is 
placed  in  a  box,  with  a  bed  of  blossoms. 
Presently,  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  the 
Cetonia,  with  a  long  thread  tied  to  one 
leg,  will  fly  in  circles  round  the  little  girl's 
head. 

Childhood  is  pitiless  because  it  does  not 
understand,  for  nothing  is  more  cruel  than 
ignorance.  None  of  my  madcaps  will  heed 
the  sufferings  of  the  insect,  a  melancholy 
galley-slave  chained  to  a  cannon-ball.  These 
artless  minds  find  amusement  in  torture.  J 
dare  not  always  call  them  to  order,  for  I 
admit  that  I  on  my  side  am  also  guilty, 
though  I  am  ripened  by  experience,  to  some 
extent  civilized  and  beginning  to  know  a 
thing  or  two.  They  inflict  suffering  for  the 
sake  of  amusement  anx!  I  for  the  sake  of  in- 
formation: is  it  not  really  the  same  thing? 
Is  there  a  very  definite  line  of  demarcation 
between  the  experiments  of  knowledge  and 
the  puerilities  of  childhood?  I  cannot 
see  it. 

5 


More  Beetles 

Human  barbarity  in  the  past  employed 
the  rack  to  force  a  prisoner  to  speak.  Am 
I  anything  but  a  torturer  when  I  interro- 
gate my  insects  and  put  them  to  the  rack  to 
wrest  some  secret  from  them?  Let  Anna 
get  such  pleasure  as  she  can  out  of  her  pris- 
oners, for  I  am  meditating  something 
worse.  The  Cetonia  has  things  to  reveal 
to  us,  things  that  will  interest  us,  beyond  a 
doubt.  Let  us  try  to  obtain  these  revela- 
tions. We  cannot,  of  course,  do  so  without 
serious  inconvenience  to  the  insect.  So  be 
it;  and  now  let  us  proceed:  we  will  silence 
our  kindly  scruples  for  the  sake  of  the  story. 

Among  the  guests  at  the  festival  of  the 
lilacs  the  Cetonia  deserves  to  be  most  hon- 
ourably mentioned.  He  is  of  a  good  size, 
which  lends  itself  to  observation.  Though 
deficient  in  elegance  with  his  massive,  square- 
cut  build,  he  has  splendour  in  his  favour: 
the  gleam  of  copper,  the  flash  of  gold,  or 
the  austere  magnificence  of  bronze  as  it 
leaves  the  brass-founder's  burnisher.  He  is 
a  regular  frequenter  of  my  enclosure,  a 
neighbour,  and  will  therefore  spare  me  the 
trips  which  are  beginning  to  tell  upon  me. 
Lastly — and  this  is  an  excellent  quality 
when  one  wishes  to  be  understood  by  all 
6 


The  Cetoniae 

one's  readers — he  is  known  to  everybody, 
if  not  by  his  classic  name,1  at  least  as  an 
object  that  often  meets  the  eye. 

Who  has  not  seen  him,  like  a  great  em- 
erald lying  at  the  heart  of  a  rose,  whose 
tender  blush  he  enhances  by  the  richness  of 
his  jewellery?  In  this  voluptuous  bed  of 
stamens  and  petals  he  is  encrusted,  motion- 
less; he  remains  there  night  and  day,  intoxi- 
cated by  the  heady  fragrance,  drunk  with 
nectar.  It  needs  the  stimulus  of  fierce  sun- 
light to  arouse  him  from  his  bliss  and  set 
him  soaring  with  a  buzzing  flight. 

To  watch  the  idle  Beetle  in  his  sybaritic 
bed,  without  further  information,  one  would 
hardly  suspect  him  of  gluttony.  What 
nourishment  can  he  find  on  a  rose  or  a  clus- 
ter of  hawthorn-blossom?  At  most  a  tiny 
drop  of  sugary  exudation,  for  he  does  not 
browse  upon  the  petals,  still  less  upon  the 
foliage.  And  can  this,  a  mere  nothing,  sat- 
isfy that  big  body?  I  hesitate  to  believe  it. 

In  the  first  week  of  August  I  placed  in  a 
cage  fifteen  Cetoniae  that  had  just  burst 
their  shells  in  my  rearing-jars.  Bronze 

1  The  Cetonia  is  also  known  as  the  Rose-chafer  (C. 
aurata).  Cf.  More  Hunting  Wasps,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  Trans- 
lator's Note. 

7 


More  Beetles 

above  an,d  violet  underneath,  they  belong  to 
the  species  C.  metallica,  FAB.  I  provide 
them,  according  to  the  resources  of  the  day, 
with  pears,  plums,  melon  or  grapes. 

It  is  a  joy  to  see  them  feast.  Once  at 
table  they  do  not  budge.  Not  a  movement, 
not  even  a  shifting  of  the  feet.  With  their 
heads  in  the  fruit-pulp,  often  with  their  bod- 
ies completely  submerged,  they  sip  and  swal- 
low night  and  day,  in  the  darkness,  in  the 
sunlight,  without  a  break.  Surfeited  with 
sweets,  the  guzzlers  hold  on.  Collapsing 
under  the  table,  that  is  to  say,  under  the  deli- 
quescent fruit,  they  still  lick  their  lips,  in  the 
blissful  drowsiness  of  a  child  that  drops 
asleep  with  its  slice  of  bread  and  jam  at  its 
lips. 

There  is  no  sportiveness  in  their  orgy, 
even  when  the  sun  shines  fiercely  into  the 
cage.  All  activity  is  suspended;  the  time  is 
wholly  devoted  to  the  joys  of  the  stomach. 
In  this  torrid  heat  it  is  so  pleasant  to  lie 
under  the  greengage,  oozing  with  juice ! 
With  such  good  things  at  hand,  why  go  fly- 
ing across  the  fields  where  everything  is 
parched?  None  dreams  of  such  a  thing. 
There  is  no  scaling  of  the  walls  of  the  cage, 


The  Cetoniae 

no  sudden  unfurling  of  the  wings  in  an  at- 
tempt to  escape. 

This  life  of  junketing  has  already  lasted  a 
fortnight  without  producing  satiety.  Such 
a  protracted  banquet  is  not  frequent;  we  do 
not  find  it  even  in  the  Dung-beetles,  who  are 
zealous  eaters.  When  the  Sacred  Beetle, 
spinning  his  little  unbroken  cord  of  intesti- 
nal refuse,  has  remained  a  whole  day  on  a 
tasty  morsel,  it  is  the  most  that  the  gorman- 
dizer can  allow  himself.1  But  my  Cetoniae 
have  been  feasting  on  the  sweets  of  the  plum 
and  pear  for  a  full  fortnight;  and  there  is 
no  sign  yet  that  they  have  had  enough. 
When  will  the  orgy  make  way  for  the  wed- 
ding and  the  cares  of  the  future? 

Well,  there  will  be  no  wedding  and  no 
family-cares  this  year.  These  are  put  off 
till  next  year:  a  singular  postponement, 
quite  at  variance  with  the  usual  custom, 
which  is  to  be  extremely  expeditious  in  these 
important  matters.  It  is  the  season  of 
fruits;  and  the  Cetonia,  a  passionate  glutton, 
means  to  enjoy  these  good  things  without 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  i  to 
vii.  and  in  particular  chap.  iv. — Translator's  Note. 
9 


More  Beetles 

being  diverted  from  them  by  the  worries  of 
egg-laying.  The  gardens  offer  the  luscious 
pear  and  the  wrinkled  fig,  its  eye  moist  with 
syrup.  The  greedy  creature  takes  posses- 
sion of  them  and  becomes  oblivious  to  all 
else. 

However,  the  dog-days  are  becoming 
more  and  more  pitiless.  Day  after  day, 
another  load  of  brushwood,  as  our  peasants 
say,  is  added  to  the  furnace  of  the  sun.  Ex- 
cessive heat,  like  cold,  produces  a  suspension 
of  life.  To  kill  the  time,  creatures  that  are 
grilled  or  frozen  go  to  sleep.  The  Ceto- 
niae  in  my  breeding-cage  bury  themselves  in 
the  sand,  a  couple  of  inches  down.  The 
sweetest  fruits  no  longer  tempt  them:  it  is 
too  hot. 

It  takes  the  moderate  temperature  of  Sep- 
tember to  wake  them  from  their  torpor. 
At  this  season  they  reappear  on  the  surface; 
they  settle  down  to  my  bits  of  melon-rind, 
or  slake  their  thirst  at  a  small  bunch  of 
grapes,  but  soberly,  taking  only  short 
draughts.  The  hunger-fits  of  early  days  and 
the  interminable  filling  of  the  belly  have 
gone  for  ever. 

Now  comes  the  cold  weather.     Again  my 
captives  disappear  underground.     Here  they 
pass  the  winter,  protected  only  by  a  layer  of 
10 


The  Cetoniae 

sand  a  few  inches  in  depth.  Under  this 
slight  covering,  in  their  wooden  shelter,  ex- 
posed to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  they  are 
not  endangered  by  the  severe  frosts.  I 
thought  them  susceptible  to  cold,  but  I  find 
that  they  bear  the  hardships  of  the  winter 
remarkably  well.  They  have  retained  the 
robust  constitution  of  the  larvae,  which  I  used 
to  find,  to  my  astonishment,  lying  stiff  and 
stark  in  a  block  of  frozen  snow,  yet  return- 
ing to  life  when  carefully  thawed. 

March  is  not  over  before  signs  of  life  re- 
appear. My  buried  Beetles  emerge,  climb 
up  the  wire  trellis,  wandering  about  if  the 
sun  is  kind,  going  back  into  the  sand  if  the 
air  grows  colder.  What  am  I  to  give  them? 
There  is  no  fruit.  I  serve  them  some  honey 
in  a  paper  dish.  They  go  to  it  without  any 
marked  assiduity.  Let  us  fin,d  something 
more  to  their  taste.  I  offer  them  some 
dates.  The  exotic  fruit,  a  delicious  pulp  in 
a  thin  skin,  suits  them  very  well,  despite  its 
novelty:  they  could  set  no  greater  store  by 
pears  or  figs.  The  dates  bring  us  to  the  end 
of  April,  the  time  of  the  first  cherries. 

We  have  now  returned  to  the  regulation 
diet,  the  fruits  of  the  country.  A  very  mod- 
erate consumption  takes  place:  the  hour  is 


More  Beetles 

past  for  feats  of  gastric  prowess.  Very 
soon  my  boarders  grow  indifferent  to  food. 
I  surprise  them  in  nuptial  embraces,  a  sign 
that  egg-laying  is  near  at  hand.  In  antici- 
pation of  events,  I  have  placed  in  the  cage, 
level  with  the  soil,  a  pot  full  of  dead,  half- 
rotten  leaves.  About  the  summer  solstice  I 
see  them  enter  it,  one  by  one,  remaining  in 
it  for  some  little  time.  Then,  having  fin- 
ished their  business,  they  return  to  the  sur- 
face. For  a  week  or  two  longer,  they  wan- 
der about,  finally  hiding  themselves  in  the 
sand,  at  no  great  depth,  and  dying. 

Their  successors  are  in  the  pot  of  rotten 
leaves.  Before  the  en,d  of  June  I  find,  in  the 
tepid  mass,  plenty  of  recent  eggs  and  very 
young  larvae.  I  now  have  the  explanation 
of  a  peculiarity  which  caused  me  some  con- 
fusion at  the  time  of  my  earlier  studies. 
When  rummaging  through  the  big  heap  of 
leaf-mould  which,  in  a  shady  corner  of  the 
garden,  provides  me  yearly  with  a  rich  col- 
ony of  Cetoniae,  I  used  to  find,  under  my 
trowel,  in  July  and  August,  intact  cocoons 
which  woul,d  soon  split  open  under  the 
thrust  of  the  insect  inside;  I  also  found  the 
adult  Cetonia,  who  had  emerged  from  her 
strong-box  that  very  day,  and  quite  close  to 

12 


The  Cetoniae 

these  I  would  find  very  young  larvae,  which 
had  only  just  made  their  appearance.  I  had 
before  my  eyes  the  crazy  paradox  of  children 
born  before  their  parents. 

The  breeding-cage  has  cleared  up  these 
obscure  points  completely.  It  has  taught 
me  that  the  Cetonia,  in  the  adult  form,  lives 
through  a  whole  year  and  the  summer  of 
the  following  year.  The  cocoon  is  broken 
during  the  summer  heats  of  July  and  August. 
The  regular  thing  would  be,  provided  the 
season  were  propitious,  to  think  at  once  of 
the  family,  after  indulging  in  a  few  nuptial 
frolics.  This  is  the  general  rule  among 
other  insects.  For  them  the  present  form 
is  an  efflorescence  of  brief  duration,  which 
the  needs  of  the  future  employ  as  quickly 
as  may. 

The  Cetonia  does  not  display  this  haste. 
She  was  a  gross  eater  in  her  days  of  pot-bel- 
lied grubhood;  she  remains  a  gross  eater  be- 
neath the  splendour  of  her  adult  cuirass. 
She  spends  her  life,  so  long  as  the  heat  is  not 
too  overwhelming,  in  the  jam-factory  of  the 
orchard:  apricots,  pears,  peaches,  figs  and 
plums.  Lingering  over  her  meal,  she  for- 
gets all  else  and  defers  her  egg-laying  to  the 
following  year. 

13 


More  Beetles 

After  the  torpor  of  hibernation  in  some 
place  of  shelter,  she  reappears  with  the  first 
days  of  spring.  But  there  is  no  fruit  now; 
and  last  year's  glutton,  who,  for  that  mat- 
ter, has  become  a  frugal  eater,  whether  by 
necessity  or  by  temperament,  has  no  other 
resource  than  the  niggardly  drinking-bar  of 
the  flowers.  When  June  has  come,  she  sows 
her  eggs  in  a  heap  of  vegetable  mould,  be- 
side the  chrysalids  whence  the  adult  insect 
will  emerge  a  little  later.  This  being  so, 
unless  we  are  in  the  secret,  we  behold  the 
mad  spectacle  of  the  egg  preceding  the 
mother  that  lays  it. 

Among  the  Cetoniae  that  make  their  ap- 
pearance in  the  course  of  the  same  year  we 
must  therefore  distinguish  two  generations. 
Those  of  the  spring,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
roses,  have  lived  through  the  winter.  They 
must  lay  their  eggs  in  June  and  then  die. 
Those  of  the  autumn,  passionate  fruit-lovers, 
have  recently  left  their  nymphal  dwellings. 
They  will  hibernate  and  will  lay  their  eggs 
about  the  middle  of  the  following  summer. 

We  have  come  to  the  longest  days  of  the 

year;  this  is  the  moment.     In  the  shadow  of 

the  pines,  against  the  wall  of  the  enclosure, 

stands  a  heap  some  cubic  yards  in  volume, 

14 


The  Cetoniae 

formed  of  all  the  rubbish  of  the  garden  and 
particularly  of  dead  leaves  collected  at  the 
time  of  their  fall.  This  is  the  compost-fac- 
tory which  supplies  the  needs  of  my  potted 
plants.  Now  this  bank  of  corruption, 
warmed  by  the  slow  decomposition  which  is 
working  in  it,  is  a  paradise  for  the  Cetoniae 
in  their  larval  state.  The  fat  grub  swarms 
there,  finding  abundant  provender  in  the 
shape  of  fermented  vegetable  matter  and 
an  agreeable  warmth,  even  in  the  heart  of 
the  winter. 

Four  species  live  here,  thriving  admirably, 
despite  the  annoyance  which  my  curiosity 
causes  them.  The  most  numerous  is  the 
Metallic  Cetonia  (C.  metallica,  FAB.). 
This  is  the  insect  that  provides  me  with  the 
greater  part  of  my  data.  The  others  are 
the  common  Golden  Cetonia,  or  Rose-chafer 
(C.  aurata,  LINN.),  the  Dark-brown  Ceto- 
nia (C.  morio,  FAB.)  and  lastly  the  small 
Funeral-pall  Cetonia  (C.  stictica,  LINN.).1 

Let  us  inspect  the  heap  about  nine  or  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  We  must  be  dili- 
gent and  patient,  for  the  advent  of  the  lay- 
ing mothers  is  subject  to  capricious  delays 

1  This  Beetle,  also  known  as  C.  Oxythyrea,  MULS.,  is 
black  and,   in  the  males,  covered  with  white  spots,  sug- 
gesting a  pall. — Translator's  Note. 
15 


More  Beetles 

and  often  makes  us  wait  in  vain.  Chance 
favours  us.  Here  is  a  Metallic  Cetonia 
dropping  in  from  some  neighbouring  spot. 
In  wide  circles  she  flies  once  or  twice  over 
the  heap;  she  inspects  the  lie  of  the  land 
from  above  and  selects  a  point  easy  of  ac- 
cess. Whoosh!  She  pounces  upon  it,  digs 
with  her  head  and  legs  and  forthwith  makes 
her  way  in.  Which  way  will  she  go? 

At  first  the  sense  of  hearing  tells  us  of  the 
direction  followed:  we  hear  a  rustling  of 
withered  leaves  as  long  as  the  insect  is  work- 
ing through  the  dry  outer  layer.  Then 
nothing  but  silence:  the  Cetonia  has  reached 
the  moist  centre  of  the  heap.  Here  and 
here  only  must  the  laying  take  place,  so  that 
the  grub  emerging  from  the  egg  may  find 
soft  food  at  hand  without  seeking  for  it. 
Let  us  leave  the  mother  to  her  task  and  re- 
turn a  couple  of  hours  later. 

But  first  let  us  reflect  upon  what  has  just 
occurred.  A  magnificent  insect,  a  living  gem 
of  goldsmith's  work,  was  slumbering  just 
now  at  the  heart  of  a  rose,  on  the  satin  of  its 
petals,  in  the  sweetness  of  its  scent.  And 
now  this  voluptuary  in  her  golden  tunic,  this 
sipper  of  ambrosia,  suddenly  leaves  her 
flower  and  buries  herself  in  corruption;  she 
16 


The  Cetonis 

abandons  the  sumptuous  hammock,  fragrant 
of  attar,  to  burrow  in  nauseous  filth. 
Whence  this  sudden  depravity? 

She  knows  that  her  grub  will  regale  itelf 
on  what  she  herself  abhors;  and  overcoming 
her  repugnance,  not  even  giving  it  a  thought, 
she  takes  the  plunge.  Is  she  actuated  by  the 
memory  of  her  larval  days?  But  what 
memory  of  food  can  she  have  after  a  year's 
interval,  above  all  after  an  absolute  remould- 
ing of  her  organism?  To  draw  the  Ceto- 
nia  hither,  to  make  her  come  from  the  rose 
to  this  putrid  heap,  there  is  something  better 
than  the  memory  of  the  belly;  there  is  a 
blind,  irresistible  impulse,  which  acts  in  the 
most  logical  manner  under  cover  of  a  seem- 
ing insanity. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  heap  of  leaf- 
mould.  The  rustle  of  the  withered  leaves 
has  informed  us  approximately:  we  know  in 
what  direction  to  make  our  search,  a  minute 
and  hesitating  search,  for  we  have  to  follow 
the  mother's  trail.  Nevertheless,  guided 
by  the  materials  thrust  aside  on  the  insect's 
passage,  we  reach  our  goal.  The  eggs  are 
found,  scattered  without  order,  always 
singly,  with  no  preparatory  measures.  It  is 
enough  that  there  should  be  close  at  hand 
17 


More  Beetles 

soft  vegetable   matter,   suitably   fermented. 

The  egg  is  an  ivory  globule,  departing 
only  slightly  from  the  spherical  form  and 
measuring  nearly  three  millimetres  l  in  di- 
ameter. The  hatching  takes  place  twelve 
days  later.  The  grub  is  white,  bristling 
with  short,  sparse  hairs.  When  laid  bare 
and  removed  from  its  leaf-mould,  it  crawls 
upon  its  back,  that  is  to  say,  it  possesses 
the  curious  method  of  locomotion  character- 
istic of  its  race.  With  its  earliest  wriggles 
it  proclaims  the  art  of  walking  on  its  back, 
with  its  legs  in  the  air. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  to  rear  this  grub. 
A  thin  box,  which  hinders  evaporation  and 
keeps  the  provisions  fresh,  receives  the 
nurseling  together  with  a  selection  of  fer- 
mented leaves,  gathered  from  the  heap  of 
mould.  This  is  enough:  my  charge  thrives 
and  undergoes  its  transformation  in  the 
following  year,  provided  I  take  care  to  renew 
the  victuals  from  time  to  time.  No  entomo- 
logical rearing  gives  less  trouble  than  that 
of  the  Cetonia-larva,  with  its  robust  appetite 
and  its  vigorous  constitution. 

Its  growth  is  rapid.  At  the  beginning  of 
August,  four  weeks  after  hatching,  the  grub 

1 .117   inch. — Translator's   Note. 
18 


The  Cetoniae 

has  reached  half  its  final  size.  The  idea 
occurs  to  me  to  estimate  its  consumption 
of  food  by  means  of  the  stercoral  granules 
which  collect  in  the  box  from  the  time  of 
its  first  mouthful.  I  find,  1 1,978  cubic  milli- 
metres j1  that  is  to  say,  in  one  month  the  grub 
has  digested  a  volume  of  matter  equivalent 
to  several  thousand  times  its  own  initial  bulk. 

The  Cetonia-grub  is  a  mill  that  is  always 
grinding  dead  vegetable  substances  into 
meal;  it  is  a  crushing-machine  of  great 
efficiency,  which  night  and  day,  almost  all 
the  year  round,  shreds  and  powders  the 
matter  which  fermentation  has  already  re- 
duced to  tatters.  In  the  rotting  heap  the 
fibres  and  veins  of  the  leaves  would  remain 
intact  indefinitely.  The  grub  takes  posses- 
sion of  these  refractory  remnants;  with  its 
excellent  shears  it  tears  and  minces  them 
very  small;  it  dissolves  them,  reducing  them 
to  a  paste  in  the  intestines,  and  adds  them, 
henceforth  capable  of  being  used,  to  the 
riches  of  the  soil. 

In  the  larval  stage,  the  Cetonia  is  a  most 
active  manufacturer  of  leaf-mould.  When 
the  metamorphosis  occurs  and  I  review  the 
results  of  my  insect-rearing  for  the  last  time, 

1  733  cubic  inches. — Translator's  Note. 
19 


More  Beetles 

I  am  shocked  by  the  amount  of  eating  which 
my  gormandizers  have  done  in  the  course  of 
their  lives;  it  can  be  measured  by  the 
bowlful. 

The  Cetonia-larva  is  worth  attention  from 
another  point  of  view.  It  is  a  corpulent 
grub,  an  inch  long,  with  a  convex  back  and 
a  flat  belly.  The  dorsal  surface  is  wrinkled 
with  thick  folds,  on  which  the  sparse  hairs 
stand  erect  like  the  bristles  of  a  brush;  the 
ventral  surface  is  smooth,  covered  with  a 
fine  skin,. through  which  the  ample  wallet  of 
ordure  shows  as  a  brown  patch.  The  legs 
are  very  well-shaped,  but  are  small,  feeble 
and  out  of  proportion  to  the  rest  of  the 
body. 

The  creature  is  given  to  coiling  itself  into 
a  closed  ring.  This  is  a  posture  of  repose, 
or  rather  of  anxiety  and  defence.  At  such 
times  the  living  coil  contracts  so  violently 
that  we  fear  to  see  it  burst  open  and  void  its 
entrails  when  we  seek  to  unroll  it  by  force. 
When  no  longer  molested,  the  grub  unrolls 
itself,  straightens  out  and  makes  haste  to 
escape. 

Then    a   surprise   awaits   us.     If   placed 
upon  the  table,  the  harassed  creature  travels 
on  its  back  with  its  legs  in  the  air,  inactive. 
20 


The  Cetoniae 

This  extravagant  method,  contrary  to  the 
accepted  usages  of  locomotion,  appears  at 
first  sight  an  accident,  a  chance  manoeuvre  of 
the  bewildered  animal.  Not  at  all:  it  is  a 
normal  manoeuvre;  and  the  grub  knows  no 
other.  You  turn  it  over  on  its  belly,  hoping 
to  see  it  progress  in  the  customary  fashion. 
Your  attempts  are  useless :  obstinately  it  lies 
down  on  its  back  again,  obstinately  it  crawls 
along  in  a  reversed  position.  Nothing  will 
persuade  it  to  walk  on  its  legs.  Either  it 
will  remain  motionless,  coiled  into  a  circle, 
or,  straightening  itself  out,  it  will  travel  up- 
side down.  This  is  its  way  of  doing  things. 

Leave  it  undisturbed  on  the  table.  It 
sets  off,  longing  to  bury  itself  in  the  soil  and 
escape  from  its  tormentor.  Its  progress  is 
by  no  means  slow.  The  dorsal  pads,  actu- 
ated by  a  powerful  layer  of  muscle,  give  it  a 
hold  even  on  a  smooth  surface,  thanks  to 
their  brush-like  tufts  of  hair.  They  are 
ambulacra  which,  by  their  multiplicity,  exert 
a  vigorous  traction. 

The  moving  mechanism  is  apt  to  roll  from 
side  to  side.  By  reason  of  the  rounded 
form  of  the  back,  the  grub  sometimes  turns 
turtle.  The  accident  is  not  serious.  With 
a  heave  of  its  loins,  the  capsized  grub  at  once 


More  Beetles 

recovers  its  balance  and  resumes  its  dorsal 
crawl,  accompanied  by  a  gentle  swaying  to 
right  and  left.  It  also  pitches  to  and  fro. 
The  prow  of  the  vessel,  the  larva's  head, 
rises  and  falls  in  measured  oscillations. 
The  mandibles  open  and  bite  at  space,  appar- 
ently trying  to  seize  some  support  which  is 
lacking. 

Let  us  give  it  this  support:  not  in  the  leaf- 
mould,  whose  opacity  would  hide  what  I 
want  to  see,  but  in  a  transparent  medium. 
I  happen  to  have  what  I  need,  a  glass  tube  of 
some  length,  open  at  both  ends  and  of  a 
gradually  diminishing  calibre.  At  the  large 
end  the  grub  enters  comfortably;  at  the 
other  end  it  finds  a  very  tight  fit. 

As  long  as  the  tube  is  more  than  wide 
enough,  the  grub  moves  along  on  its  back. 
Then  it  enters  a  part  of  the  tube  whose  cali- 
bre is  equal  to  that  of  its  body.  From  this 
moment  the  locomotion  loses  its  abnormal 
character.  No  matter  what  its  position, 
whether  the  belly  is  uppermost,  undermost 
or  to  one  side,  the  grub  advances.  I  see  the 
muscular  waves  of  the  dorsal  pads  moving 
with  a  beautiful  regularity,  like  the  ripples 
spreading  over  a  calm  sheet  of  water  which 
has  been  disturbed  by  the  fall  of  a  pebble. 
22 


The  Cetoniae 

I  see  the  bristles  bowing  and  standing  up 
again  like  corn  waving  in  the  wind. 

The  head  oscillates  evenly.  The  tips  of 
the  mandibles  are  used  as  a  crutch  which 
measures  the  paces  in  advance  and  gives  sta- 
bility by  obtaining  a  purchase  of  the  walls. 
In  all  the  positions,  which  I  vary  at  will  by 
turning  the  tube  between  my  fingers,  the  legs 
remain  inactive  even  when  they  touch  the 
supporting  surface.  Their  part  in  loco- 
motion is  almost  nil.  What  use,  then,  can 
they  be?  We  shall  see  presently. 

The  transparent  channel  in  which  the 
larva  is  worming  its  way  tells  us  what  hap- 
pens in  the  heart  of  the  heap  of  garden- 
mould.  Supported  on  every  side  at  once, 
close-sheathed  in  the  substance  traversed,  the 
grub  progresses  in  the  normal  position  as 
often  as  in  the  reversed  position  and  even 
oftener.  By  virtue  of  its  dorsal  waves, 
which  come  into  contact  with  the  surround- 
ing materials  in  every  direction,  it  moves 
back  or  belly  uppermost,  indifferently. 
Here  are  no  longer  fantastic  exceptions; 
matters  return  to  their  habitual  order;  if  we 
could  see  the  grub  ambling  through  the  heap 
of  rotting  leaves,  we  should- not  regard  it  as 
in  any  way  peculiar. 

23 


More  Beetles 

But,  when  we  expose  it  on  the  table,  we 
perceive  a  glaring  anomaly,  which  disap- 
pears upon  reflection.  Support  is  lacking 
on  every  side  save  from  below.  The  dorsal 
pads,  the  principal  ambulacra,  take  contact 
with  this  one  surface;  and  the  .animal 
straightway  walks  upside  down.  The  Ceto- 
nia-grub  surprises  us  by  the  strangeness  of 
its  locomotion  merely  because  we  are  observ- 
ing it  outside  its  usual  environment.  It  is 
thus  that  the  other  corpulent,  short-legged 
grubs  would  travel — the  grubs  of  the  Cock- 
chafer, the  Oryctes  l  or  the  Anoxia-beetle — 
were  it  possible  to  unroll  them  entirely  and 
to  straighten  out  the  crook  of  their  mighty 
paunches. 

In  June,  which  is  laying-season,  the  old 
larvae  that  have  lived  through  the  winter 
make  their  preparations  for  the  transforma- 
tion. The  nymphal  caskets  are  contempo- 
rary with  the  ivory  globules  from  which  the 
new  generation  will  emerge.  Although 
rudely  made,  the  Cetonia-cocoons  are  not 
without  a  certain  elegance.  They  are  ovoids 
almost  the  size  of  a  Pigeon's  egg.  Those 
of  the  Funeral-pall  Cetonia,  the  smallest  of 
the  species  inhabiting  my  heap  of  leaf- 

1  The  Rhinoceros-Beetle.— Translator's  Note. 
24 


The  Cetoniae 

mould,  are  very  much  smaller,  hardly  larger 
than  a  cherry. 

All,  however,  have  the  same  shape  and  the 
same  appearance,  so  much  so  that,  with  the 
exception  of  the  small  cocoons  of  the  Fu- 
neral-pall Cetonia,  I  cannot  distinguish  one 
from  the  other.  Here  the  work  tells  me 
nothing  of  the  worker;  I  must  wait  until  the 
adults  come  out  to  name  my  discoveries  cor- 
rectly. However,  as  a  general  rule,  subject 
to  many  exceptions,  the  cocoons  of  the  Gol- 
den Cetonia  have  an  outside  facing  of  the 
insect's  droppings,  set  close  together  with- 
out any  definite  arrangement.  Those  of  the 
Metallic  Cetonia  and  the  Dark-brown  Ceto- 
nia are  covered  with  remnants  of  decayed 
leaves. 

We  must  regard  these  differences  as  re- 
sulting merely  from  the  materials  that  sur- 
round the  grub  at  the  moment  when  it  is 
building  its  cocoon  and  not  from  a  special 
method  of  construction.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  Golden  Cetonia  likes  building  in 
the  midst  of  its  old  dejecta,  now  hard  gran- 
ules, while  the  other  two  prefer  cleaner 
spots.  Hence,  no  doubt,  the  diversity  of 
the  outer  layer. 

In  the  case  of  the  three  larger  Cetoniae, 
25 


More  Beetles 

the  cocoons  are  free,  that  is  to  say,  they  do 
not  adhere  to  a  fixed  base;  they  are  con- 
structed without  a  special  foundation.  The 
Funeral-pall  Cetonia  has  other  methods.  If 
it  finds  in  the  leaf-mould  a  little  stone,  no 
larger  than  a  finger-nail,  it  will  by  preference 
build  its  hut  on  this;  but,  if  there  is  no  little 
stone,  it  can  quite  well  dispense  with  it  and 
build  as  the  others  do,  without  any  firm  sup- 
port. 

The  inside  of  the  cocoon  is  smooth  as 
stucco,  as  is  required  by  the  delicate  skin 
first  of  the  grub,  then  of  the  nymph.  The 
wall  is  tough,  resisting  the  pressure  of  the 
finger.  It  consists  of  a  brown,  homogeneous 
material,  of  a  nature  which  at  first  is  diffi- 
cult to  determine.  It  must  have  been  a 
smooth  paste  which  the  grub  worked  in  its 
own  fashion,  even  as  the  potter  works  his 
clay. 

Does  the  ceramic  art  of  the  Cetonia  like- 
wise employ  some  sort  of  fuller's  earth?  So 
we  should  judge  from  the  books,  which 
agree  in  regarding  the  cocoons  of  the  Cock- 
chafer, the  Oryctes,  the  Cetonia  and  other 
Beetles  as  earthy  structures.  The  books, 
which  are  generally  compilations  and  not 
collections  of  facts  directly  observed,  do  not 
26 


The  Cetoniae 

inspire  me  with  much  confidence.  In  this 
instance  my  doubts  are  increased,  for  the 
Cetonia-larva  could  not  find  the  necessary 
clay  within  a  short  radius,  in  the  midst  of 
the  decayed  leaves  around  it. 

I  myself,  digging  this  way  and  that  in  the 
heap,  should  be  greatly  put  to  it  to  collect 
enough  plastic  material  to  fill  a  thimble. 
What  of  the  grub,  which  no  longer  stirs 
from  its  place  when  the  time  has  come  to 
shut  itself  up  in  a  cocoon?  It  can  gather 
only  immediately  around  it.  And  what  does 
it  find?  Solely  remains  of  leaves,  humus,  a 
bad  mortar  that  does  not  set.  The  con- 
clusion is  inevitable:  the  grub  must  have 
other  resources. 

To  divulge  these  resources  will  perhaps 
expose  me  to  the  foolish  accusation  of  un- 
blushing realism.  Certain  ideas  shock  us 
though  they  are  quite  straightforward  and 
consistent  with  the  sacred  simplicity  of 
things.  Nature  has  not  our  scruples:  she 
makes  direct  for  her  goal,  heedless  of  our 
approval  and  our  dislike.  Let  us  silence  a 
delicacy  which  seems  out  of  place:  we  must 
ourselves  become  animals  to  a  certain  small 
extent,  if  we  wish  to  understand  the  beau- 
tiful economy  of  animal  industry.  Let  us 
27 


More  Beetles 

gloss  over  things  as  best  we  can,  but  let  us 
not  shrink  from  the  truth. 

The  Cetonia-larva  is  about  to  build  itself 
a  strong-box  in  which  the  transformation, 
the  most  delicate  of  tasks,  will  be  accom- 
plished; it  is  about  to  erect  itself  an  enclosing 
wall,  I  might  almost  say,  to  spin  itself  a  co- 
coon. The  caterpillar,  to  weave  its  cocoon 
withal,  has  silk-tubes  and  a  spinneret.  The 
Cetonia-larva,  which  cannot  make  use  of 
outside  things,  has  nothing  at  all,  it  would 
seem.  But  this  is  a  mistake.  Its  poverty 
is  only  apparent.  Like  the  caterpillar,  it 
has  secret  reserves  of  building-materials;  it 
has  even  a  spinneret,  but  at  the  other  end  of 
its  body.  Its  store  of  cement  is  its  intestine. 

The  grub  was  a  mighty  evacuator  in  its 
active  period,  as  is  proved  by  the  brown 
granules  which  it  has  scattered  in  profusion 
along  its  road.  As  the  transformation  ap- 
proached, it  became  more  moderate;  it  be- 
gan to  save  up,  amassing  a  hoard  of  paste 
of  a  most  fine  and  binding  quality.  Observe 
the  tip  of  its  belly  as  it  withdraws  from  the 
world.  You  will  see  a  wide  dark  patch. 
This  is  the  bag  of  cement  showing  through 
its  skin.  This  store,  so  well  provided,  tells 
us  plainly  in  what  the  artisan  specializes: 


The  Cetoniae 

the  Cetonia-larva  works  exclusively  in  fsecal 
masonry. 

If  proofs  were  needed,  here  they  are.  I 
isolate  some  larvae  which  have  attained  their 
full  maturity  and  are  ready  to  build,  in  small 
jars,  placing  one  in  each.  As  building  needs 
a  support,  I  provide  each  jar  with  some 
slight  contents,  which  can  easily  be  removed. 
One  receives  some  cotton-wool,  chopped 
small  with  the  scissors;  another  some  bits  of 
paper,  the  size  of  a  lentil;  a  third  some  pars- 
ley-seed; a  fourth  some  radish-seed.  I  use 
whatever  comes  to  hand,  without  preference 
for  this  or  that. 

The  larvae  do  not  hesitate  to  bury  them- 
selves in  these  surroundings,  which  their 
race  has  never  frequented.  There  is  here 
no  earthy  matter,  such  as  we  should  expect 
to  find  used  in  the  construction  of  the  co- 
coons; there  is  no  clay  to  be  collected. 
Everything  is  perfectly  clean.  If  the  grub 
builds,  it  can  only  do  so  with  mortar  from 
its  own  factory.  But  will  it  build? 

To  be  sure  it  will  and  supremely  well. 
In  a  few  days'  time  I  have  magnificent  co- 
coons, as  strong  as  those  that  I  extracted 
from  the  leaf-mould.  They  are,  moreover, 
much  prettier  in  appearance.  In  the  flask 
29 


More  Beetles 

containing  cotton-wool,  they  are  clad  in  a 
fluffy  fleece ;  in  that  containing  bits  of  paper, 
they  are  covered  with  white  tiles,  as  though 
they  had  been  snowed  upon;  in  those  contain- 
ing radish  or  parsley-seed  they  have  the  look 
of  nutmegs  embellished  with  an  accurate 
milling.  This  time  the  work  is  really  beau- 
tiful. When  human  artifice  assists  the  tal- 
ent of  the  stercoral  artist,  the  result  is  a 
pretty  toy. 

The  outer  wrapper  of  paper  scales,  seeds 
or  tufts  of  cotton-wool  adheres  fairly  well. 
Beneath  it  is  the  real  wall,  consisting  entirely 
of  brown  cement.  The  regularity  of  the 
shell  gives  us  at  first  the  idea  of  an  inten- 
tional arrangement.  The  same  idea  occurs  to 
us  if  we  consider  the  cocoon  of  the  Golden 
Cetonia,  which  is  often  prettily  adorned  with 
a  rubble  of  droppings.  It  looks  as  though 
the  grub  collected  from  all  around  such 
building-stones  as  suit  its  purpose  and  en- 
crusted them  piecemeal  in  the  mortar  to 
give  greater  strength  to  the  work. 

But  this  is  not  so  at  all.  There  is  no 
mosaic-work.  With  its  round  rump  the  larva 
presses  back  the  shifting  material  on  every 
side;  it  adjusts  it,  levels  it  by  simple  pressure 
and  then  fixes  it,  at  one  point  after  another, 
30 


The  Cetoniae 

by  means  of  its  mortar.  Thus  it  obtains  an 
egg-shaped  cavity  which  it  reinforces  at 
leisure  with  fresh  layers  of  plaster,  until  its 
excremental  reserves  are  exhausted.  Every- 
thing that  is  reached  by  the  trickling  of 
the  cement  sets  like  concrete  and  henceforth 
forms  part  of  the  wall,  without  any  further 
intervention  by  the  builder. 

To  follow  the  grub  through  the  whole 
course  of  its  labours  is  impracticable:  it 
works  under  a  roof,  protected  from  our 
indiscretion.  But  we  can  at  least  surprise 
the  essential  secret  of  its  method.  I  select 
a  cocoon  whose  softness  indicates  that  the 
work  is  not  yet  completed.  I  make  a  mod- 
erate hole  in  it.  If  it  were  too  wide,  the 
breach  would  discourage  the  occupant  and 
would  make  it  impossible  for  the  grub  to 
repair  its  shattered  roof,  not  for  lack  of 
materials,  but  for  want  of  support. 

Let  us  make  a  cautious  incision  with  the 
point  of  a  penknife  and  look.  The  grub  is 
rolled  into  a  hook  which  is  almost  closed. 
Feeling  uneasy,  it  puts  its  head  to  the  sky- 
light which  I  have  opened  and  investigates 
what  has  happened.  The  accident  is  soon 
perceived.  Thereupon  the  hook  closes  en- 
tirely, the  opposite  poles  of  the  grub  come 
31 


More  Beetles 

into  mutual  contact  and  then  and  there  the 
builder  is  in  possession  of  a  pellet  of  cement 
which  the  stercoral  factory  has  that  moment 
furnished.  To  display  such  prompt  obedi- 
ence the  intestine  must  certainly  be  pecu- 
liarly obliging.  That  of  the  Cetonia-larva 
is  very  highly  so;  directly  it  is  called  upon 
to  act,  it  acts. 

Now  the  true  function  of  the  legs  is  re- 
vealed. Of  no  use  for  walking,  they  become 
precious  auxiliaries  when  the  time  comes  for 
building.  They  are  tiny  hands  that  seize  the 
piece  gathered  by  the  mandibles,  turn  it 
over  and  over,  and  hold  it  while  the  mason 
subdivides  it  and  applies  it  economically. 
The  pincers  of  the  mandibles  serve  as  a 
trowel. 

They  cut  bit  after  bit  from  the  lump, 
chewing  and  kneading  the  material  and  then 
spreading  it  on  the  edge  of  the  breach.  The 
forehead  presses  and  smooths  it  as  it  is  laid. 
When  the  supply  of  the  moment  is  ex- 
hausted, the  grub,  coiling  itself  again  into 
a  closed  hook,  will  obtain  a  further  piece 
from  its  warehouse,  which  remains  obedient 
to  its  orders. 

The  little  that  the  breach  allows  us  to 
see — for  it  is  pretty  quickly  repaired— tells 
32 


The  Cetoniae 

us  what  goes  on  under  ordinary  conditions. 
Without  the  aid  of  sight,  we  see  the  grub 
evacuating  at  intervals  and  renewing  its 
store  of  cement  ;  we  can  follow  it  as  it  gath- 
ers the  clod  with  the  tips  of  its  mandibles, 
squeezing  it  with  its  legs,  dividing  it  to  its 
liking  and  spreading  it  with  its  mouth  and 
forehead  on  the  weak  spots  of  the  wall.  A 
rolling  motion  of  the  rump  gives  it  a  polish. 
Without  borrowing  any  extraneous  mate- 
rials, the  builder  finds  within  itself  the  buil- 
ding-stones of  its  edifice. 

A  similar  stercoral  talent  is  the  portion 
of  other  big-bellied  larvae,  which  wear 
around  their  abdomen  a  wide  brown  sash, 
the  insignia  of  their  craft.  With  the  con- 
tents of  their  intestinal  wallet  they  build 
the  hut  in  which  metamorphosis  takes  place. 
All  tells  us  of  the  high  economy  which 
knows  the  secret  of  turning  the  abject  into 
the  decent  and  of  producing  from  a  box  of 
ordure  the  Golden  Cetonia,  the  guest  of  the 
roses  and  the  glory  of  the  spring. 


33 


CHAPTER  II 

SAPRINI,  DERMESTES  AND  OTHERS 

npWENTY  thousand,  Reaumur  l  tells  us, 
•*•  twenty  thousand  embryos  in  the  body 
of  the  Grey  Flesh-fly!  2  Twenty  thousand! 
What  does  she  want  with  this  formidable 
family?  With  offspring  that  reproduce 
themselves  several  times  in  a  year,  does  she 
intend  to  dominate  the  world?  She  would 
be  capable  of  it.  Speaking  of  the  Bluebot- 
tle,3 who  is  far  less  prolific,  Linnaeus 4  al- 
ready wrote : 

"Three   Flies  consume  the  carcase  of  a 
Horse  as  quickly  as  a  Lion  could  do  it." 
What  could  not  the  other  accomplish? 

1  Rene  Antoine  Ferthault  de  Reaumur   (1683-1757),  the 
French  physicist  and  naturalist,  inventor  of  the  Reaumur 
thermometer    and     author    of    Memoires  pour  savoir    a 
I'histoire  naturelle  des   insectes. — Translator's  Note. 

2  Cf.     The  Life  of  the  Fly,  by  J.  Henri   Fabre,  trans- 
lated by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chap.  x. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

8  Cf.     idem:    chaps,    xiv.    to    xvi. — Translator's    Note. 

4  Carolus  Linnaeus  (Karl  von  Linne,  1707-1778),  the 
celebrated  Swedish  botanist  and  naturalist. — Translator's 
Note. 

34 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

Reaumur  reassures  us: 

"Despite  such  amazing  fertility,"  he  says, 
"these  sorts  of  Flies  are  not  commoner  than 
others  which  resemble  them  and  in  whose 
ovaries  we  find  only  two  eggs.  The  mag- 
gots of  the  former  are  seemingly  destined  to 
feed  other  insects,  which  very  few  of  them 
escape." 

Now  which  are  the  insects  charged  with 
this  task  of  extirpation?  The  master  sus- 
pects their  existence ;  he  guesses  that  they  are 
there,  without  having  had  the  occasion  to  ob- 
serve them.  My  retting-vats  provide  me 
with  the  means  of  filling  up  this  historical 
gap;  they  show  me  the  consumers  at  their 
appointed  task  of  thinning  out  the  obtrusive 
maggot.  Let  me  record  this  tragic  business. 

A  larger  Adder  is  liquefying,  thanks  to 
the  solvent  dribbled  by  the  teeming  vermin. 
The  earthenware  dish  becomes  a  porringer 
full  of  cadaveric  fluid  whence  the  reptile's 
backbone  emerges  spiral-wise.  The  scaly 
sheath  swells  up  and  throbs  in  gentle  undula- 
tions, as  though  an  internal  tide  were  lifting 
the  skin  with  its  ebb  and  flow.  Gangs  of 
workers  pass  to  and  fro  between  skin  and 
muscle,  seeking  a  suitable  spot  for  their  ac- 
tivities. A  few  of  them  show  themselves 

35 


More  Beetles 

for  a  moment  between  the  disjointed  scales. 
Surprised  by  the  light,  they  dart  forth  their 
pointed  heads  and  at  once  pop  in  again. 
Close  beside  them,  in  the  gaps  between  the 
spiral  coils,  the  highly-flavoured  broth  lies  in 
stagnant  channels.  Here  the  greater  part 
are  feeding  in  shoals,  motionless,  packed  to- 
gether, with  their  bud-shaped  breathing- 
holes  expanded  on  the  surface  of  the  liquid. 
Their  numbers  are  indefinite  and  immense, 
defying  computation. 

Many  strangers  take  part  in  the  maggots' 
banquet.  The  first  to  hasten  to  it  are  the 
Saprini,  lovers  of  corruption,  as  their  name 
implies.  They  arrive  at  the  same  time  as 
the  Luciliae,1  before  the  flesh  liquefies. 
They  take  up  their  positions,  inspect  the 
body,  tease  one  another  in  the  sunshine,  dis- 
appear under  the  corpse.  The  time  has  not 
yet  come  for  a  good  square  meal.  They 
wait. 

Despite  their  habit  of  dwelling  in  fetid 
surroundings,  the  Saprini  are  pretty  insects. 
Well-armoured,  thickset,  moving  by  fits  and 
starts  with  short,  quick  steps,  they  glisten 
like  beads  of  jet.  On  their  shoulders  are 

1  Or  Greenbottles.     Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Fly:  chap,  ix.— 
Translator's  Note. 

36 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

chevron-like  stripes  which  the  classifier  notes 
to  mark  where  he  stands  in  the  midst  of  this 
specific  variety;  they  temper  the  brilliance  of 
their  black  wing-cases  with  stippled  spaces 
which  diffuse  the  light.  Some  'display  pol- 
ished, shimmering  patches  on  a  dull-bronze 
background  chased  as  though  with  the 
graver's  tool.  Sometimes  the  sombre  ebony 
costume  is  embellished  with  brightly-col- 
oured ornaments.  The  Spotted  Saprinus 
decorates  each  wing-case  with  a  splendid 
orange  crescent.  In  short,  considered  merely 
from  the  assthetic  point  of  view,  these  little 
undertakers'  assistants  are  by  no  means  de- 
void of  merit.  They  cut  an  excellent  figure 
in  the  glass  cases  of  our  collections. 

But  one  should  see  them  above  all  at 
work.  The  Snake  is  submerged  in  the  broth 
of  its  liquefied  flesh.  The  maggots  are 
legion.  With  their  diadem-like  valves 
gently  opening  and  closing,  they  lie,  spread 
like  a  field  of  flowers  on  the  pool  of  meat- 
extract.  The  hour  has  come  for  the  Sa- 
prini to  begin  feasting. 

Busily  bustling  to  and  fro  on  the  parts 
that  are  still  uncovered,  they  scale  the  reefs 
and  promontories  formed  by  the  reptile's 
coils  and  from  these  points,  protected 

37 


More  Beetles 

against  the  perilous  flood,  they  fish  for  their 
favourite  titbit.  Here  is  a  grub  near  the 
bank,  one  not  too  large  and  for  that  reason 
all  the  more  tender.  One  of  the  gluttons 
sees  it,  cautiously  approaches  the  depths, 
snaps  with  his  mandibles  and  pulls,  uproot- 
ing his  prey.  The  plump  little  sausage 
emerges,  wriggling.  As  soon  as  it  is  on  dry 
land,  the  victim  is  disembowelled  and  rap- 
turously crunched  up.  Not  a  scrap  is  left. 
The  morsel  is  often  shared,  two  collabora- 
tors tugging  in  opposite  directions,  but  with- 
out a  scuffle. 

Maggot-fishing  is  carried  on  in  this  way 
at  every  point  of  the  shore.  The  catch  is 
not  abundant,  for  most  of  the  fry  are  some 
distance  from  the  mainland,  in  deep  waters 
where  the  Saprini  do  not  venture.  They 
never  risk  wetting  their  feet.  However,  the 
tide  withdraws  by  degrees,  absorbed  by  the 
sand  and  evaporated  by  the  sun.  The  grubs 
retreat  under  the  corpse;  the  Saprini  follow 
them.  The  massacre  becomes  general.  A 
few  days  later,  we  remove  the  Snake. 
There  are  no  maggots  left.  Nor  are  there 
any  in  the  sand,  making  ready  for  the  meta- 
morphosis. The  horde  has  disappeared:  it 
has  been  eaten. 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

The  extermination  is  so  complete  that,  to 
obtain  pupae,  I  have  to  resort  to  rearing 
them  in  private,  guarding  the  larvae  against 
the  invasion  of  the  Saprini.  The  earthen- 
ware pans  in  the  open  air,  though  thoroughly 
searched,  never  yield  me  any,  however  num- 
erous the  maggots  were  at  the  outset.  Dur- 
ing my  earlier  experiments,  when  as  yet  I 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  massacre,  I  could  not 
get  over  my  surprise  when,  after  noting  an 
abundance  of  vermin  under  this  or  that  piece 
of  carrion  a  few  days  before,  I  no  longer 
found  anything,  even  in  the  sand.  I  should 
have  concluded  that  the  occupants  had  mi- 
grated in  a  body,  had  it  been  permissible  to 
imagine  a  maggot  making  a  long  journey 
through  a  waterless  world. 

The  Saprini,  those  lovers  of  fat  sausages 
are  entrusted  with  the  task  of  thinning  out 
the  Grey  Fly,  of  whose  twenty  thousand  off- 
spring only  a  few  will  survive,  just  enough 
to  maintain  the  race  within  proper  limits. 
They  flock  about  the  dead  Mole  or  Adder; 
but,  kept  at  a  distance  by  the  too  liquid 
sanies  and,  for  that  matter,  able  to  live  on 
a  few  frugal  mouthfuls,  they  wait  until  the 
maggots'  work  is  finished.  Then,  the  lique- 
faction of  the  corpse  completed,  they  slaugh- 

39 


More  Beetles 

ter  the  liquidators.  To  purge  the  soil 
swiftly  of  life's  offal,  the  scavenging  maggot 
multiplies  its  legions;  then,  having  itself  be- 
come a  peril  by  reason  of  its  numbers,  it  dis- 
appears, exterminated,  when  its  cleansing 
task  is  done. 

In  my  district,  I  obtain  nine  species  of 
Saprini,  some  found  under  carrion,  others 
under  dung.  I  give  their  names  in  a  foot- 
note.1 The  first  four  species  hasten  to  my 
earthenware  pans,  but  the  most  numerous 
and  most  assiduous,  those  on  whom  the  bulk 
of  the  work  falls,  are  S.  subnitidus  and  5. 
detersus.  They  arrive  as  early  as  April,  at 
the  same  time  as  the  Luciliae,  whose  off- 
spring they  ravage  with  the  same  zeal  as 
that  of  the  Grey  Fly.  Both  of  them  abound 
in  my  charnel-pits  until  the  torrid  sun  of  the 
dog-days  puts  an  end  to  the  invasion  of  the 
Flies  by  drying  up  the  exposed  carrion  too 
quickly.  They  reappear  in  September,  with 
the  first  cool  breezes  of  autumn. 

Flesh  or  fish,  fur,  feather  or  reptile,  every- 
thing suits  them  because  it  also  attracts  the 

1  Under  carrion:  S.  subnitidus,  DE  MARS:  S.  detersus 
ILLIO.:  S.  maculatus,  Ros. :  S.  eeneus,  FAB. — Author's  Note. 

Under  dung:  S.  speculifer,  Latr.:  S.  virescens,  PAYK.: 
S.  metallescens,  ERICH:  S.  furvus,  ERICH:  S.  rotundatus, 
ILLIG.— Author's  Note. 

40 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

maggot,  their  favourite  meat.  While 
waiting  for  the  vermin  to  grow,  they  take 
a  few  sips  of  the  sanies;  but  these  are 
scarcely  more  than  an  appetizer  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  great  feast,  when  the  wriggling 
grubs  are  fattened  to  a  turn. 

Seeing  them  so  active,  one  at  first  pictures 
them  as  occupied  with  family-cares.  So  I 
believed;  and  I  was  wrong.  Under  the  car- 
rion in  my  necrotic  laboratory,  there  is  never 
an  egg  belonging  to  them,  never  a  larva. 
The  family  must  be  established  elsewhere, 
in  the  dung-hills  and  dust-heaps  apparently. 
I  have,  in  fact,  found  their  nymphs,  which 
are  easily  recognized,  in  March,  on  the  floor 
of  a  poultry-run  saturated  with  the  drop- 
pings of  the  fowls.  The  adults  visit  my  ret- 
ting-pans  to  feast  upon  the  maggot.  When 
their  mission  is  accomplished,  in  the  late 
autumn,  they  seem  to  return  to  the  filth  un- 
der whose  shelter  the  generation  is  prepared 
which,  as  soon  as  winter  is  over,  hastens  to 
the  dead  bodies  of  animals  to  moderate  the 
excesses  of  the  Sarcophagae 1  and  the 
Luciliae. 

The  labours  of  the  Fly  do  not  satisfy  the 
requirements  of  hygiene.  When  the  soil 

1 S,  carnaria  is  the  Grey  Flesh-fly. — Translator's  Note. 
41 


More  Beetles 

has  drunk  the  cadaveric  extract  elaborated 
by  the  grubs,  a  great  deal  remains  that  can- 
not be  liquefied  or  dried  up  by  the  heat. 
Other  workers  are  needed,  who  treat  the 
mummified  carcase  anew,  nibbling  at  the 
shrivelled  muscles  and  tendons  until  the 
relics  are  reduced  to  a  heap  of  bones  as  clean 
as  ivory. 

The  Dermestes  are  charged  with  this  long 
labour  of  gnawing.  Two  species  come  to 
my  earthenware  pans  at  the  same  time  as 
the  Saprini:  D.  undulatus,  BRAHM.,  and  D. 
Frischii,  KUGEL.  The  first,  striped  with 
fine,  snow-white,  wavy  lines  on  a  black 
ground,  has  a  red  corselet  speckled  with 
brown  spots;  the  second,  the  larger  of  the 
two,  is  dull  black  all  over,  with  the  sides  of 
the  corselet  powdered  ashen  grey.  Both 
wear  white  flannel  underneath,  which  forms 
a  violent  contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  cos- 
tume and  seems  inconsistent  with  the  insect's 
calling. 

The  Necrophorus,1  the  burier  of  the  dead, 
has  already  shown  us  this  propensity  for  soft 
stuffs  and  the  clash  of  discordant  colours. 
He  covers  his  breast  with  a  waistcoat  of  nan- 

1Or  Burying-beetle.     Cf.   The   Glow-worm   and  Other 
Beetles,    by    J.    Henri    Fabre,    translated    by    Alexander 
Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  xi  and  xii. — Translator's  Note. 
42 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

keen  flannel,  decorates  his  wing-cases  with 
red  stripes  and  sports  an  orange  club  at  the 
tip  of  his  antennae.  The  Wavy  Dermestes, 
wearing  a  leopard-skin  cape  and  a  jerkin 
striped  with  ermine,  could  almost,  humble 
though  he  be,  rival  the  elegance  of  this 
mighty  undertaker. 

Both  of  them  numerous,  the  two  Dermes- 
tes come  to  my  earthenware  receptacles  with 
a  common  aim;  to  dissect  the  dead  body  to 
the  bone  and  to  feed  on  what  the  maggots 
have  left.  If  the  work  of  these  is  not  com- 
pleted, if  the  lower  surface  of  the  corpse  is 
still  oozing,  they  wait,  gathered  on  the  edges 
of  the  pan  or  clinging  in  long  rows  to  the 
cords  by  which  it  is  slung.  In  their  tumul- 
tuous impatience,  falls  are  frequent,  which 
throw  the  clumsy  insect  on  its  back  and  for 
a  moment  reveal  the  white  flannel  of  the 
belly.  The  thoughtless  Beetle  soon  re- 
covers his  feet,  runs  away  and  once  more 
climbs  the  strings.  In  the  kindly  sunshine, 
frequent  pairings  occur,  which  is  another 
way  of  killing  time.  There  are  no  fights 
for  the  best  places  and  the  best  morsels. 
The  banquet  is  plentiful;  there  is  room  for 
all. 

At  last  the  victuals  are  in  the  requisite' 

43 


More  Beetles 

condition;  the  maggots  have  disappeared, 
carried  off  by  the  Saprini;  these  last  are 
themselves  becoming  scarce  and  are  repair- 
ing elsewhither  in  search  of  another  hoard 
of  vermin.  The  Dermestes  take  possession 
of  the  corpse  and  remain  indefinitely,  even 
during  the  cruel  dog-days,  when  the  exces- 
sive heat  and  drought  have  put  all  else  to 
flight.  Under  cover  of  the  dried-up  car- 
case, in  the  shadow  of  the  Mole's  fur,  which 
makes  an  impenetrable  screen,  they  nibble 
and  gnaw  and  clip  as  long  as  a  scrap  of  edible 
matter  remains  on  the  bones. 

And  the  work  of  consuming  goes  fast,  for 
one  of  the  Beetles,  Frisch's  Dermestes,  is 
surrounded  by  her  family,  who  are  endowed 
with  the  same  appetites.  Parents  and  lar- 
val offspring  of  all  ages  feast  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, insatiably.  As  for  the  Wavy  Derm- 
estes, the  other's  collaborator  in  the  dissec- 
tion of  corpses,  I  do  not  know  where  she  lays 
her  eggs.  My  pans  have  taught  me  nothing 
in  this  respect.  As  against  that,  they  tell 
me  a  great  deal  about  the  larva  of  the  other 
Dermestes. 

All  through  the  spring  an,d  the  greater 
part  of  the  summer  the  adult  abounds  beneath 
my  carcases,  accompanied  by  the  youngsters, 

44 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

ugly  creatures  covered  with  wild  bristle  of 
dark  hairs.  The  pitch-black  back  has  a  red 
stripe  running  down  the  middle  from  end  to 
end.  The  white-leaded  lower  surface  al- 
ready promises  the  white  flannel  of  matur- 
ity. The  penultimate  segment  is  armed, 
above,  with  two  curved  points.  These  are 
grapnels,  which  enable  the  grub  to  slip 
swiftly  through  the  interstices  of  the  bones. 

The  exploited  carcase  seems  deserted,  so 
quiet  is  everything  outside.  Lift  it  up.  In- 
stantly what  liveliness,  what  confusion ! 
Surprised  by  the  sudden  rush  of  light,  the 
hairy-backed  larvae  dive  under  the  remains, 
wriggling  their  way  into  the  crevices  of  the 
skeleton  ;  the  adults,  whose  movements  are 
less  supple,  run  to  and  fro  in  their  distress, 
burying  themselves  as  best  they  can,  or 
flying  off.  Leave  them  to  their  darkness: 
they  will  resume  the  interrupted  work  and, 
some  time  in  July,  we  shall  find  their  nymphs 
with  no  other  shelter  than  the  remnants  of 
the  corpse. 

Although  the  Dermestes  disdains  to  bur- 
row underground  in  order  to  undergo  their 
transformation,  finding  sufficient  protection 
beneath  the  remains  of  the  wasted  corpse, 
this  is  by  no  means  the  case  with  the  Silpha, 

45 


More  Beetles 

another  exploiter  of  the  dead.  Two  species 
visit  my  pans :  S.  rugosa,  LINN,  and  S. 
sinuata,  FAB.  Although  assiduously  fre- 
quented by  both  species,  my  appliances  tell 
me  nothing  definite  about  the  history  of 
these  two  habitual  associates  of  the  Dermes- 
tes  and  the  Saprinus.  Perhaps  I  took  up 
the  matter  too  late. 

At  the  end  of  the  winter,  indeed,  I  find 
beneath  a  toad  the  family  of  the  Wrinkled 
Silpha.  It  consists  of  some  thirty  naked 
larvse,  glossy,  black,  flat  and  tapering  to  a 
point.  The  abdominal  segments  end  on 
either  side  in  a  spike  aimed  backwards. 
The  penultimate  segment  has  short,  brist- 
ling filaments.  Hidden  in  the  shadow  of 
the  disembowelled  toad,  these  larvae  are 
nibbling  the  dry  meat,  long  toasted  in  the 
sun. 

About  the  first  week  in  May,  they  repair 
underground,  where  each  of  them  digs  itself 
a  spherical  recess.  The  nymphs  are  con- 
tinually on  the  alert.  At  the  slightest  dis- 
turbance, they  twirl  their  pointed  abdomen, 
brandishing  it  to  and  fro  with  a  rapid  whirl- 
ing motion.  At  the  end  of  the  same  month, 
the  adults  leave  the  soil.  Equally  precocious, 
it  would  seem,  are  the  insects  that  come  to 
46 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

my  pans,  to  eat  their  fill  but  not  to  reproduce 
their  species.  Family  cares  are  postponed 
to  a  later  season,  to  the  end  of  autumn. 

I  shall  mention  but  briefly  the  Necro- 
phorus  (N.  vestigator,  HERCH.),  whose 
feats  I  have  described  elsewhere.1  He 
comes  to  my  apparatus,  of  course,  but  with- 
out making  a  long  stay,  the  carcases  being  as 
a  rule  too  large  for  his  burying-methods. 
For  that  matter,  I  myself  would  thwart  his 
enterprises  if  it  did  suit  him.  I  want  to  see 
not  burials  but  operations  in  the  open  air. 
If  the  sexton  is  persistent,  I  dissuade  him 
by  pestering  him. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  others.  Who  is  this, 
assiduous  visitor,  but  appearing  only  in  small 
parties,  hardly  more  than  four  or  five  at  a 
time?  It  is  an  Hemipteron,2  a  slender  Bug, 
with  red  wings  and  with  stout,  toothed 
thighs  to  its  hind-legs;  it  is  the  Spurred  Aly- 
dus  (A.  calcaratus,  LINN.J,  a  near  kins- 
woman of  the  Reduvius,  so  interesting  be- 
cause of  her  explosive  egg.3  She  too  has 

1  Cf.  The  Glow-worm  and  Other  Beetles:  chaps,  xi.  and 
xii. — Translator's  Note. 

2  An    order    of    insects    consisting    mainly    of    Bugs. — 
Translator's  Note. 

3  The   essay  on   the   Masked   Reduvius  will   appear   in 
the   following   volume,   the   last   volume   of  the   series. — 
Translator's  Note. 

47 


More  Beetles 

an  appetite  for  game,  but  how  moderate 
compared  with  the  other's!  I  see  her  wan- 
dering over  my  specimens  in  search  of  a  de- 
nuded bone  bleached  by  the  sun.  After 
finding  a  suitable  point  she  applies  the  tip  of 
her  rostrum  to  it  and  for  some  time  remains 
motionless. 

With  her  rigid  implement,  fine  as  a  horse- 
hair, what  can  she  extract  from  that  bone? 
I  ask  myself  in  vain,  so  dry  does  the  surface 
exploited  appear  to  be.  Perhaps  she  col- 
lects the  vestiges  of  grease  left  by  the  Derm- 
estes'  conscientious  tooth.  Quite  a  secon- 
dary worker,  she  gleans  where  others  have 
reaped.  I  should  have  liked  to  follow  this 
bone-sucker's  habits  more  closely  and  above 
all  to  obtain  her  eggs,  in  the  hope  of  dis- 
covering some  little  mechanical  secret  at  the 
moment  of  hatching.  My  attempts  failed. 
When  imprisoned  in  a  glass  jar  with  the 
victuals  which  she  requires,  the  Alydus  al- 
lows herself  to  pine  away  from  one  day  to 
the  next.  She  needs  to  fly  in  freedom  over 
the  neighbouring  rosemary-bushes,  after  her 
sojourn  in  the  retting-vats. 

We  will  close  this  list  of  undertakers' 
assistants  with  the  Staphylini,1  the  tribe  with 

1Or  Rove-beetles. — Translator's  Note. 
48 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

the  short  wing-cases.  Two  species,  both 
inmates  of  dung-hills,  haunt  my  earthen-ware 
pans:  Aleochara  fuscipes,  FAB.,  and  Staphy- 
linus maxillosus,  LINN.  My  attention  is 
drawn  rather  to  the  latter,  the  family 
giantess. 

Barred  with  ash-grey  velvet  on  a  black 
ground,  the  Big-jawed  Staphylinus  reaches 
me  only  in  small  numbers,  always  one  by  one. 
She  flies  up  hastily,  perhaps  from  the  stables 
hard  by.  She  alights,  coils  her  belly,  opens 
her  pincers  and  dives  impetuously  into  the 
Mole's  fur.  Then,  with  her  powerful  nip- 
pers, she  punctures  the  skin,  now  blue  and 
distended  by  gases.  The  sanies  oozes  out. 
The  glutton  greedily  eats  her  fill;  and  that 
is  all.  Soon  she  departs,  as  suddenly  as  she 
came. 

I  have  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  see 
anything  further.  The  big  Staphylinus  has- 
tens to  my  pans  only  to  feast  upon  a  highly 
seasoned  dish.  Her  family  dwelling  must 
be  in  the  'dung-hills  about  the  stables  of  the 
neighbourhood.  I  should  have  much  liked 
to  see  her  make  her  home  in  my  charnel-pits. 

The  Staphylinus  is  a  curious  creature  in- 
deed. Her  short  wing-cases,  covering  just 
the  top  of  her  shoulders,  her  fierce  mandi- 

49 


More  Beetles 

bles,  overlapping  like  a  meat-hook,  and  her 
long,  naked  abdomen,  which  she  lifts  and 
brandishes  in  the  air,  make  her  a  being 
apart,  of  alarming  aspect.  I  should  like  to 
learn  something  of  her  larva.  As  I  cannot 
do  this  with  the  Beetle  that  visits  my  Moles, 
I  apply  myself  to  a  kindred  species,  as. nearly 
as  possible  her  equivalent  in  respect  of  size. 

In  winter,  when  I  raise  the  stones  beside 
the  foot-paths,  I  often  come  across  the  larva 
of  the  Stinking  Staphylinus  (S.  olens, 
MULL.),  or  Devil's  Coach-horse.  The  ugly 
animal,  which  is  not  very  different  in  shape 
from  the  adult,  measures  about  an  inch  in 
length.  The  head  and  thorax  are  a  fine, 
glossy  black;  the  abdomen  is  brown  and 
bristles  with  sparse  hairs.  The  cranium  is 
flat;  the  mandibles  are  black  an.d  very  sharp, 
opening  in  a  ferocious  crescent  whose  width 
is  more  than  twice  the  diameter  of  the  head. 
The  mere  sight  of  these  curved  daggers  en- 
ables us  to  guess  the  highwayman's  habits. 

The  creature's  most  singular  implement  is 
the  end  of  the  intestine,  which  is  covered 
with  a  horny  substance  prolonged  into  a 
stiff  tube  standing  at  right  angles  to  the  axis 
of  the  body.  This  member  is  an  instrument 
of  locomotion,  an  anal  crutch.  In  walking, 
so 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

the  animal  presses  the  tip  of  this  crutch  to 
the  ground  and  thrusts  backwards  as  with  a 
lever,  while  the  legs  struggle  forward. 
Dore,1  the  famous  illustrator  of  extrava- 
gant notions,  conceived  a  similar  system. 
He  shows  us  somewhere  a  legless  cripple 
seated  in  a  bowl  supported  by  a  pivot  and 
working  himself  along  on  his  hands.  The 
artist's  grotesque  imagination  might  well 
have  been  inspired  by  the  grotesque  appear- 
ance of  the  insect. 

Even  among  its  own  kind,  the  crutched  in- 
sect is  a  bad  neighbour.  Very  rarely  do  I 
find  two  larvae  under  the  same  stone;  and, 
when  this  happens,  one  of  the  two  is  always 
in  a  pitiful  state:  the  other  is  devouring  it 
as  if  it  were  its  ordinary  game.  Let  us 
watch  this  conflict  of  two  cannibals,  each 
thirsting  for  the  other's  blood. 

In  the  arena  furnished  by  a  tumbler  con- 
taining some  moist  sand,  I  place  two  larvae 
of  equal  strength.  The  moment  they  face 
each  other,  they  suddenly  rear  up,  bending 
their  bodies  backwards,  with  the  six  legs  in 
the  air,  hooks  of  the  mandibles  wide  open 
and  the  anal  crutch  firmly  fixed.  They  look 

1  Gustave  Dore  (1833-1883),  the  French  illustrator  of 
Dante,  Rabelais,  La  Fontaine  and  many  others. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

51 


More  Beetles 

magnificently  audacious  in  this  posture  of  at- 
tack and  defence.  This  above  all  is  the 
best  moment  for  recognizing  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  the  pivot  at  the  tail.  Though 
in  danger  of  being  disembowelled  by  its  ad- 
versary, the  larva  has  no  other  support  than 
the  tip  of  the  abdomen  and  the  terminal 
tube.  The  six  legs  play  no  part  in  sustain- 
ing it;  they  wave  in  the  air,  all  six  free  and 
ready  to  clasp  the  enemy. 

The  two  adversaries  are  standing  face  to 
face.  Which  of  the  two  will  eat  the  other? 
Chance  decides.  Mutual  threats  are  fol- 
lowed by  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  The 
fight  does  not  last  long.  Favoured  by  the 
hazards  of  the  fray,  or  perhaps  timing  its 
blows  more  accurately,  one  seizes  the  other 
by  the  scruff  of  the  neck.  It  is  done:  any 
resistance  on  the  part  of  the  vanquished  is 
impossible ;  blood  flows  and  murder  has  been 
committed.  When  all  movement  has  ceased, 
the  victor  devours  the  slain,  leaving  only  the 
unpleasantly  hard  skin. 

Is  this  frenzy  for  killing  among  creatures 
of  the  same  species  due  to  cannibalism  en- 
forced by  starvation  ?  I  really  do  not  think 
so.  When  well-fed  to  begin  with,  rich, 
moreover,  in  the  victuals  which  I  lavish  upon 
52 


Saprini,  Dermestes  and  Others 

them,  these  miscreants  are  as  prone  as  ever 
to  butcher  their  kith  and  kin.  In  vain  I 
overwhelm  them  with  choice  morsels :  succu- 
lent sausages  in  the  shape  of  young  Anoxia- 
larvae  ;  1  Vitrinae,2  tiny  molluscs  which  I  give 
them  half-crushed,  to  spare  the  banqueters 
the  trouble  of  extracting  them  from  the 
shell.  As  soon  as  they  are  confronted,  the 
two  bandits,  which  have  just  been  feasting 
on  a  prey  as  bulky  as  themselves,  stand  up, 
challenging  each  other  and  snapping  at  each 
other  until  one  of  the  two  is  dead.  Then 
follows  the  odious  meal.  To  eat  the  mur- 
dered kinsman  is,  it  seems,  the  usual  thing. 

The  Mantis 3  who,  in  captivity,  preys 
upon  her  mates  has  the  madness  of  the  rut- 
ting beast  as  her  excuse.  The  fierce,  jealous 
creature  can  find  no  better  way  of  getting  rid 
of  her  rivals  than  to  eat  them,  provided  she 
be  the  stronger.  This  procreative  deprav- 
ity is  found  much  higher  in  the  scale.  The 
Cat  and  the  Rabbit  notably  are  prone  to  de- 
vour the  young  family  which  might  stand  in 
the  way  of  their  unslaked  passions. 

1  The   Anoxia  is   a   Beetle   akin   to  the   Cockchafer. — 
Translator's  Note. 

2  A  genus  of  Land-Snails. — Translator's  Note. 

3  Cf.     The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  vi. 
to  ix. — Translator's  Note. 

S3 


More  Beetles 

In  my  glass  jars  and  under  the  flat  stones 
in  the  fields  the  Devil's  Coach-horse  has  no 
such  excuse.  Thanks  to  its  larval  state,  it 
is  utterly  indifferent  to  the  disorders  atten- 
dant on  the  pairing.  Those  of  its  fellows 
which  it  encounters  are  not  its  amorous  ri- 
vals. And  yet  without  more  ado  they  seize 
and  slay  one  another.  A  fight  to  the  death 
decides  which  is  to  be  the  consumed  and 
which  the  consumer. 

In  our  language  we  have  the  word  anthro- 
pophagi to  denote  the  horrible  eating  of  man 
by  man;  we  have  nothing  to  express  a  simi- 
lar act  in  animals  of  the  same  species.  A 
proverbial  phrase  would  even  seem  to  say 
that  such  a  term  is  uncalled  for,  except 
where  man  is  concerned,  that  baffling  admix- 
ture of  nobility  and  baseness.  Wolf  does 
not  eat  Wolf,  says  the  wisdom  of  the  na- 
tions. Well,  here  we  have  the  larva  of  the 
Stinking  Staphylinus  giving  the  lie  to  the 
proverb. 

What  a  morality.  In  this  connection,  I 
should  have  wished  to  consult  the  Big-jawed 
Staphylinus  when  she  came  to  visit  my  high- 
ly-seasoned Moles,  my  putrefying  Snakes. 
But  she  always  refused  to  divulge  her  secrets, 
withdrawing  from  the  charnel-pit  once  she 
had  filled  her  maw. 


CHAPTER     III 

THE    BEADED   TROX 

"  I  'HE  Fly  has  deserved  well  of  hygiene. 
-••  The  first  to  come  to  the  dead  Mole, 
she  left  behind  her  a  garrison  of  scavengers 
which,  without  dissecting-instruments, 
whether  lancets  or  scalpels,  set  to  work  upon 
the  corpse.  The  most  urgent  matter  was 
to  sterilize  the  carcase,  to  extract  from  it 
such  substances  as  are  readily  corrupted,  the 
source  of  rapid  and  dangerous  putrescence. 
And  this  is  what  the  maggot  has  been  doing. 
From  its  pointed  mouth,  for  ever  poking 
and  rummaging,  it  dribbled  forth  a  solvent 
as  effective  as  any  in  my  laboratory;  with 
this  reagent  it  dissolved  the  flesh  and  vis- 
cera, or  at  least  reduced  them  to  a  thick 
liquid  broth.  Gradually  the  soil  is  saturated 
with  the  fertilizing  moisture,  which  the 
plant  will  soon  restore  to  the  laboratory  of 
living  chemistry. 

When  her  mission  is  completed,  the  Fly 
herself  becomes  a  danger,  because  of  her  ex- 
55 


More  Beetles 

cessive  numbers.  In  order  to  perform 
their  pressing  task  more  quickly,  the  mag- 
gots operate  in  legions.  If  not  checked, 
they  would  encumber  the  world.  The  bal- 
ance of  things  in  general  demands  their  dis- 
appearance. Then,  in  due  season,  the  ex- 
terminator arrives,  the  Saprinus  doting  on 
fat  sausages,  the  slow-trotting  Beetle  in 
black  armour  who  massacres  the  vermin  and 
leaves  only  enough  survivors  to  maintain 
the  race. 

The  Mole  is  now  a  dried-up  mummy,  but 
is  harmful  if  affected  by  moisture.  This 
remnant  also  has  to  disappear.  The  Derm- 
estes  is  entrusted  with  the  task.  She  estab- 
lishes herself  beneath  the  remains  in  com- 
pany with  the  Silpha,  her  collaborator. 
With  her  patient  tooth  she  files,  rasps  and 
disarticulates  as  long  as  a  scrap  of  cartilage 
is  left  to  gnaw.  She  is  greatly  assisted  by 
her  starveling  larvae,  who  are  lither  in  the 
back  and  therefore  able  to  slip  into  narrow 
crevices. 

By  the  time  the  Dermestes  has  finished, 
my  pans  contain  so  many  heaps  of  bones,  a 
conglomeration  of  Snakes'  vertebrae  ar- 
ranged in  a  row,  Moles'  jaws,  with  their 
fine,  insectivorous  teeth,  Frogs'  toe-and-fin- 
56 


The  Beaded  Trox 

ger-joints,  radiating  like  knotty  sticks,  Rab- 
bits' skulls  overlapping  their  powerful  inci- 
sors, all  white  and  clean  enough  to  arouse 
the  envy  of  the  people  who  prepare  our  ana- 
tomical specimens. 

Yes,  working  one  on  the  soft  parts  and 
then  the  other  on  the  hard,  the  maggot  and 
the  Dermestes  have  performed  a  meritori- 
ous task.  There  is  no  longer  any  pestilen- 
tial filth,  any  dangerous  effluvia.  The  resi- 
due, mostly  of  a  chalky  nature,  if  it  still  of- 
fends the  eye,  is  at  least  capable  of  vitiating 
the  air,  the  first  aliment  of  life.  General 
hygiene  is  satisfied. 

Besides  his  bones,  the  Mole  has  left  the 
tatters  of  his  fur;  the  Snake  has  been  flayed 
in  tatters  like  the  skin  which  boiling  water 
strips  from  a  fleshy  root.  The  Fly's  solvent 
was  powerless  to  affect  these  refractory  sub- 
stances; the  Dermestes  refused  them.  Will 
these  epidermic  shreds  remain  unutilized? 
Certainly  not.  Nature,  the  sublime  econo- 
mist, takes  good  care  that  all  things  return 
to  the  treasury  of  her  works.  Not  an  atom 
must  be  allowed  to  go  astray. 

Others  will  come,  frugal  and  patient 
pickers-up  of  unconsidered  trifles,  and  will 
garner  the  Mole's  fur,  hair  by  hair,  to  cover 

57 


More  Beetles 

themselves,  to  clothe  themselves  with  it; 
there  will  be  some,  we  may  be  sure,  that  will 
feast  upon  the  Snake's  cast  scales.  These 
are  the  Tineas,  the  humble  caterpillars  of  no 
less  humble  Moths. 

Everything  suits  them  in  the  way  of  ani- 
mal clothing:  bristles,  hair,  scales,  horn,  fur, 
feather;  but  for  their  labours  they  need  dark- 
ness and  repose.  In  the  sunshine  and  bustle 
of  the  open  air  they  refuse  the  relics  in  my 
pans;  they  wait  until  a  gust  of  wind  sweeps 
the  charnel-pits  and  carries  the  Mole's  vel- 
vety down  or  the  reptile's  parchment  into  a 
shady  corner.  Then,  infallibly,  the  cast-off 
garments  of  the  dead  will  disappear.  As 
for  the  bones,  the  atmospheric  agencies,  hav- 
ing plenty  of  time,  will  crumble  and  disinte- 
grate them  in  good  time. 

If  I  wish  to  hasten  the  end  of  the  epi- 
dermic remains  disdained  by  the  Dermestes, 
I  have  only  to  keep  them  in  a  dry  place,  in 
the  dark.  Before  long  the  Moth  will  come 
to  exploit  them.  They  infest  my  house.  I 
had  received  the  skin  of  a  Rattlesnake  from 
Guiana.  The  horrible  specimen,  rolled  into 
a  bundle,  reached  me  intact,  with  its  poison- 
fangs,  the  mere  sight  of  which  makes  one 
shudder,  and  its  alarm  of  rattling  rings.  In 
58 


The  Beaded  Trox 

the  Carib  country  it  had  been  steeped  in  a 
poison  which  should  have  ensured  its  preser- 
vation for  an  indefinite  length  of  time.  A 
useless  precaution:  the  Moths  have  invaded 
the  thing;  they  are  gnawing  at  the  Rattle- 
snake's skin  and  find  the  unusual  dish,  here 
eaten  for  the  first  time,  excellent.  More 
familiar  victuals,  such  as  the  skin  of  our  na- 
tive Snake,  tanned  by  the  maggots  and  the 
sun,  would  be  exploited  with  even  greater 
enthusiasm. 

And  any  relics  of  what  has  once  lived  are 
visited  by  specialists  who  come  hurrying  up 
to  work  upon  dead  matter  and  restore  it  to 
circulation  under  new  forms.  Among  them 
are  some  whose  peculiar  specialty  shows  us 
with  what  scrupulous  economy  the  waste 
material  of  life  is  utilized.  Such  is  the 
Beaded  Trox  (T.  perlatus,  SCRIBA),  a 
humble  Beetle,  no  larger  than  a  cherry-stone 
at  most,  black  all  over  and  decorated  on  the 
wing-cases  with  rows  of  protuberances  which 
have  earned  it  the  epithet  of  beaded. 

Not  to  know  the  Trox  is  quite  excusable, 
for  the  insect  has  never  been  much  talked 
about.  It  is  an  obscure  creature,  over- 
looked by  the  historian.  When  impaled  in 
a  collector's  box,  it  ranks  close  to  the  Dung- 

59 


More  Beetles 

Beetles,  just  after  the  Geotrupes.1  Its 
mean  and  earthy  attire  denotes  a  digger. 
But  what  precisely  is  its  calling?  Like 
many  others,  I  did  not  know,  when  an  ac- 
cidental discovery  enlightened  me  and  taught 
me  that  the  beaded  insect  deserves  some- 
thing better  than  a  mere  compartment  in 
the  collector's  necropolis. 

February  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The 
weather  was  mild  and  the  sun  warm.  We 
had  gone  off  in  a  family  party,  with  the 
children's  lunch,  an  apple  and  a  chunk  of 
bread,  in  the  basket,  to  see  the  almond  trees 
in  bloom.  When  lunch-time  came,  we  were 
resting  under  some  great  oaks,  when  Anna, 
the  youngest  of  the  household,  always  on 
the  watch  for  "beasties"  with  her  six-year- 
old  eyes,  called  to  me  from  a  distance  of  a 
few  yards: 

"A  beastie !"  she  cried.  "Two,  three, 
four  of  them!  And  such  pretty  ones! 
Come  and  look,  papa,  come  and  look!" 

I  ran  up  to  her.  The  child  had  dug  into 
the  sand,  to  no  great  depth,  with  a  bit  of 
stick,  and  was  breaking  up  a  sort  of  rag  of 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  xii. 
to  xiv. — Translator's  Note. 

60 


The  Beaded  Trox 

fur.  I  produced  my  pocket  trowel  and 
joined  her  in  the  task;  and  in  a  moment  I 
possessed  a  dozen  Trox-beetles,  most  of 
whom  I  found  in  a  filthy  tangle  of  fur  and 
broken  bones.  They  were  working  away  at 
it  and  apparently  feeding  on  it.  I  had  dis- 
turbed them  at  their  banquet. 

What  could  this  mess  be?  That  was  the 
fundamental  question  to  be  solved.  Bril- 
lat-Sayarin  x  declared  as  an  axiom  : 

"Tell  me  what  you  eat  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  you  are." 

'If  I  wish  to  know  the  Trox,  I  must  first 
enquire  what  she  eats.  Reader,  pity  the  sor- 
rows of  the  naturalist!  Behold  me  scruti- 
nizing, meditating,  conjecturing,  my  mind  set 
in  a  whirl  by  an  unspeakable  problem,  a  ster- 
coral  problem. 

Whom  am  I  to  hold  responsible  for  this 
fibrous  lump,  in  which  I  seem  to  distinguish 
Rabbit's  fur  as  the  chief  ingredient?  The 
probabilities  point  to  the  dog.  Rabbits 
abound  on  the  Serignan  hills;  they  even  en- 
joy a  certain  reputation  among  our  epicures. 
The  village  sportsmen  hunt  them  assiduously; 
and  their  Dogs,  those  poachers  heedless  of 

iAnthelme  Brillat-Savarin   (1755-1826),  the  author  of 
La  Physiologic  du  Gout. — Translator's  Note. 
61 


More  Beetles 

licences  and  of  the  police,  do  not  fail  to 
harry  them  on  their  own  account,  at  all  sea- 
sons, close  or  open. 

Two  of  them  are  known  to  me  by  report : 
Mirate  and  Flambard.  They  meet  by  ap- 
pointment of  a  morning  in  the  market-place, 
exchange  an  inquisitive  glance,  inspect  each 
other  with  the  three  regulation  turns,  lift 
a  leg  against  the  wall  .  .  .  and  off  they  go ! 
For  the  best  part  of  the  morning  you  can 
hear  them  on  the  neighbouring  hill-sides, 
giving  vent  to  short,  sharp  yelps,  close  on 
the  heels  of  a  Rabbit  who  scampers  from 
thicket  to  thicket,  with  his  little  white  scut 
in  the  air.  At  last  they  return  home :  the  re- 
sult of  the  expedition  may  be  read  on  their 
bloody  chaps:  the  Rabbit  was  eaten  on  the 
spot,  just  as  it  was,  skin  and  all. 

Does  this  really  explain  the  substance  on 
which  my  Trox-beetles  were  living?  It 
seems  to  me  that  it  does.  Henceforth  it 
would  appear  an  easy  matter  to  rear  them. 
I  install  the  insects  in  a  large  earthenware 
pan  with  a  bed  of  sand  and  a  wire-gauze 
cover.  The  provisions  consist  of  Dog-drop- 
pings, dried  on  the  road-mender's  stone- 
heaps  beside  the  highway.  My  menagerie 
absolutely  refuse  to  look  at  them.  I  have 
62 


The  Beaded  Trox 

made  a  mistake.     Then  what  does  it  want? 

It  is  under  hairy  ordure  that  I  find  the 
insect,  always  there  and  never  any  else- 
where. Rarely  does  a  lump  of  this  rough 
felt  fail  to  conceal  a  few  of  them.  Under 
their  tight-fitting  wing-cases,  they  have  only 
quite  rudimentary  wings,  unsuited  to  flight. 
These  short-legged  creatures  hasten  to  the 
titbit  and  gather  about  it  on  foot.  They 
come  from  afar,  from  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass, guided  by  the  scent.  Once  more,  what 
is  the  origin  of  this  felt,  which  has  a  strong 
enough  stench  in  the  fresh  state  to  attract 
its  consumers  from  such  a  distance? 

At  last  I  have  my  answer.  Investigations 
patiently  pursued  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills, 
above  all  near  the  farms,  furnish  me  with  a 
decisive  piece  of  evidence.  This  is  a  mass 
of  filth,  full  of  fur  and  Trox-beetles,  like 
the  others,  but  this  time  a  regular  nugget, 
all  glittering  with  wing-cases  of  the  Golden 
Carabus.1  Eureka!  Never  did  Dog,  even 
though  starving,  feed  on  Beetles,  least  of  all 
on  acrid  Carabi.  Only  the  Fox,  in  time  of 
dearth,  accepts  such  food,  in  the  absence  of 
anything  better.  Later  on  he  makes  up  for 

1  Or  True  Ground-beetles.     Cf.  Chapters  XIV  and  XV 
of  the  present  volume. — Translator's  Note. 
63 


More  Beetles 

it  with  Rabbits,  slaughtering  them  by  night, 
when  his  rivals,  Mirate  and  Flambard,  are 
resting  from  their  labours. 

The  fur  from  which  the  Fox's  stomach 
can  derive  no  benefit  has  its  votaries.  In 
the  natural  state,  as  it  grows  on  the  skins 
which  provide  the  hat-maker  with  felt,  it 
suits  the  Moth;  unsuccessfully  worked  by 
the  carnivore's  intestine  and  seasoned  with 
faecal  matter,  it  delights  the  Beaded  Trox. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  tastes  in  this  world,  so 
that  nothing  may  be  lost.  The  menagerie 
under  the  wire-gauze  (dome,  when  supplied 
with  the  requisite  diet  of  Rabbit's  fur  pickled 
by  an  attempt  at  digestion,  fares  very  well. 

Moreover,  the  food  is  collected  without 
difficulty.  The  Fox  is  only  too  common  in 
my  neighbourhood.  I  can  easily  find  his 
furry  excreta  on  the  tangled  paths  which  he 
frequents  at  night  when  going  his  round  of 
the  farms.  My  Trox-beetles  have  plenty  to 
eat 

Not  endowed  with  a  nomadic  tempera- 
ment and  abundantly  provided  for,  they 
seem  very  well  satisfied  with  the  arrange- 
ments made  on  their  behalf.  By  day,  they 
remain  on  the  heaj)  of  victuals;  feeding  at 
leisure,  without  moving.  If  I  approach  the 
64 


The  Beaded  Trox 

wire-gauze  cover,  they  instantly  drop  down; 
then,  recovering  from  their  excitement,  they 
hide  under  the  heap.  There  is  nothing 
striking  in  the  habits  of  these  pacific  crea- 
tures, unless  it  be  the  pairing,  which  drags 
on  for  two  months,  frequently  broken  off, 
frequently  resumed,  often  a  passing  fancy. 
It  is  never  finished. 

At  the  end  of  April  I  proceed  to  search 
under  the  heap  of  provisions.  The  eggs 
are  distributed  very  near  the  surface  in  the 
moist  sand,  singly,  without  cells  or  any  prep- 
aration by  the  mother.  They  are  white 
and  globular,  about  the  size  of  small  bird- 
shot.  I  find  that  they  are  very  bulky  in  com- 
parison with  the  size  of  the  insect.  Their 
number  is  not  great.  Ten  at  most  is  the  al- 
lowance for  one  mother,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge. 

The  larvae  soon  appear  and  develop 
rather  quickly.  They  are  naked,  cylindri- 
cal grubs,  dull  white,  curved  into  a  hook  like 
the  Dung-beetles',  but  without  the  knapsack 
in  which  the  latter  reserve  the  cement  for 
plastering  the  interior  of  the  emptied  loaf 
and  preserving  the  victuals  from  desiccation. 
The  head  is  powerful  and  glossy  black;  there 
is  a  brown  streak  on  either  side  of  the  first 
65 


More  Beetles 

thoracic  segment ;  the  legs  and  mandibles  are 
strongly  made. 

Classed  close  beside  the  Dung-eaters,  the 
Trox-beetles  form  a  genus  of  boorish  habits, 
far  removed  from  the  domestic  fondness  of 
the  Scarabaeus,  the  Copris  l  and  the  others. 
With  them  there  are  no  longer  provisions 
stored  away  beforehand,  no  rations  kneaded 
for  the  larva's  benefit.  The  least  industri- 
ous of  the  Dung-beetles,  the  Onthophagi,2 
for  example,  pack  into  the  bottom  of  a  pit 
a  short  sausage,  selected  from  the  best  part 
of  the  exploited  heap;  in  the  dish  thus  pro- 
vided they  contrive  a  hatching-chamber,  in 
which  the  egg  is  daintily  lodged.  Thanks 
to  the  mother's  care,  often,  also,  to  the 
father's,  the  new-born  grub  finds  itself  pro- 
vided with  all  it  could  wish.  It  is  a  privi- 
leged creature,  spared  the  asperities  of  life. 

The  Trox,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  harsh 
and  pitiless  training.  The  grub  has  to  find 
board  and  lodging  at  its  own  cost  and  peril, 
a  serious  question  even  for  a  consumer  of 
Fox-dung.  The  mother  scatters  her  eggs 

1  For  the  Scarabaeus,  or  Sacred  Beetle,  the  Broad- 
nefcked  Scarab,  the  Spanish  Copris  and  the  Lunary 
Copris,  cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others:  chaps,  i  to  x. 
and  xvi. — Translator's  Note. 

2Cf.     The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others:  chaps,  xi.,  xvii. 
and  xviii. — Translator's  Nt>ie. 
66 


The  Beaded  Trox 

under  the  furry  ordure.  Her  foresight  in 
the  interest  of  her  young  goes  no  further. 
The  cake  that  nourishes  her  will  feed  her 
family  likewise.  It  is  large  and  will  be 
enough  for  all. 

In  order  to  follow  the  first  actions  of  the 
grubs,  I  set  apart  a  few  eggs,  singly,  in  a 
glass  tube.  At  the  bottom  is  a  column  of 
moist  sand;  above  this  is  a  store  of  food 
taken  from  that  part  of  the  Vulpine  excre- 
ment which  is  richest  in  Rabbit's  fur. 
Hatched  by  day,  the  grub  at  first  attends  to 
its  lodging.  It  digs,  hollowing  itself  a  re- 
treat in  the  sand,  a  short,  vertical  shaft  into 
which  a  few  scraps  of  the  fostering  felt  are 
dragged  afterwards.  As  and  when  the  pro- 
visions are  consumed,  the  grub  returns  to  the 
surface  to  collect  more. 

The  manoeuvres  of  the  grubs  in  the  chief 
establishment,  the  earthenware  pan  with  the 
wire-gauze  cover,  begin  and  are  continued  in 
the  same  fashion.  Under  cover  of  the  heap 
exploited  in  common,  the  larvae  have  dug 
themselves  a  vertical  shaft  apiece,  the  length 
of  a  man's  finger  and  the  diameter  of  a  thick 
pencil.  At  the  bottom  of  the  dwelling  there 
is  no  mass  of  victuals  stored  up  in  advance, 
such  as  the  abundance  on  the  surface  would 
67 


More  Beetles 

permit.  Instead  of  hoarding,  the  Trox- 
larvas  live  from  day  to  day,  I  surprise 
them,  above  all  in  the  evening,  discreetly 
climbing  to  the  top,  scraping  the  heap  above 
their  pit,  collecting  a  shaggy  armful  and  im- 
mediately climbing  down  again  tail  fore- 
most. They  do  not  reappear  so  long  as  the 
little  bale  of  fur  holds  out.  When  their 
provisions  are  finished  and  their  appetite  re- 
turns, they  make  a  fresh  ascent  and  a  fresh 
collection. 

This  frequent  coming  and  going  in  the 
shaft  threatens  sooner  or  later  to  bring 
down  the  sandy  wall.  Here  we  see  renewed 
the  industry  of  the  Geotrupes  couples,  who 
have  a  way  of  plastering  the  wall  of  their 
pit  with  dung  in  order  to  avoid  its  collapsing 
while  the  material  of  the  huge  sausage  is 
being  amassed  on  repeated  journeys;  only, 
with  the  Trox,  it  is  the  larva  itself  that  un- 
dertakes the  work  of  consolidation.  From 
end  to  end  it  lines  its  gallery  with  the  same 
felt  on  which  it  feeds. 

In  three  or  four  weeks'  time,  all  the  hairy 
materials  of  the  heap  have  disappeared  un- 
derground, dragged  by  the  larvae  to  the  bot- 
tom of  their  burrows.  On  the  surface  of 
the  soil  nothing  is  left  except  the  remains 
68 


The  Beaded  Trox 

of  the  bones.  The  adults  have  gone  to 
earth  and  are  dead  or  dying.  Their  time  is 
over.  I  obtain  the  first  nymphs  at  midsum- 
mer. A  glass  receptacle  shows  them  to  me 
slowly  turning  round  and  round  and  polish- 
ing with  their  backs  the  earthy  wall  of  their 
cell,  a  simple,  oval  cavity. 

By  the  middle  of  July  the  perfect  insect 
has  matured.  Not  yet  defiled  by  the  dirt 
of  its  calling,  it  is  really  magnificent  in  its 
ebony  cuirass,  its  strings  of  large  beads  sur- 
mounted by  white  hairs,  its  hinder  and  mid- 
dle tarsi  shod  with  bright  red.  It  comes  up 
to  the  surface,  finds  the  Fox's  dejecta,  set- 
tles down  and  from  now  onward  is  a  filthy 
scavenger.  Once  torpid  in  the  sand,  under 
the  heap  of  ordure  which  serves  it  as  a 
roof,  it  will  pass  the  winter  there  and  resume 
its  labours  in  the  spring. 

When  all  is  said,  the  Trox  is  a  somewhat 
uninteresting  insect.  One  single  point  in 
her  history  deserves  to  be  remembered, 
namely,  her  predilection  for  what  the  Fox's 
stomach  has  refused.  I  know  another  in- 
stance of  these  peculiar  tastes.  The  Owl, 
when  he  has  caught  a  Field-mouse,  stuns  her 
with  a  blow  of  his  beak  on  the  back  of  the 
neck  and  swallows  her  whole.  It  is  for  the 
69 


More  Beetles 

digestive  pouch  to  bone  and  skin  her  and 
sift  the  bad  from  the  good.  When  the  se- 
lection is  made — as  it  is,  most  admirably — 
the  bird,  with  a  shrug  of  its  body,  gets  rid 
of  the  indigestible  stuff;  it  vomits  a  pellet  of 
bones  and  fur.  Now,  just  like  the  furry 
mass  evacuated  by  the  Fox,  these  balls  of 
filth  have  their  votaries.  I  have  just  seen 
one  of  them  at  work.  This  is  the  Choleva 
tristis,  PANZ.,  a  dwarf  related  to  the  family 
of  the  Silphae. 

Is  the  fur  of  a  Rabbit  or  a  Field-mouse 
such  a  very  precious  thing,  then,  that  it  has 
special  exploiters  appointed  to  work  at  it 
again  after  the  Fox's  intestine  and  the  Owl's 
crop  have  been  unable  to  break  it  up  and 
use  it?  Yes,  this  fur  has  a  certain  value. 
Nature's  treasury  claims  it  for  fresh  pur- 
poses with  such  an  imperious  voice  that  our 
own  industries,  which  in  their  fashion  are 
endowed  with  a  terrific  power,  of  digestion, 
cannot  guarantee  us  the  protracted  posses- 
sion of  what  was  a  scrap  of  fluff. 

Cloth  comes  from  the  Sheep.  It  has  been 
worked  up  by  the  teeth  of  machinery  at  the 
spinner's  and  the  weaver's;  it  has  been 
steeped  in  chemicals  at  the  dyer's;  it  has 
passed  through  worse  ordeals  than  an  at- 
70 


The  Beaded  Trox 

tempt  to  digest  it.  Is  it  now  safe  from 
attack?  No:  the  Moth  vie  with  us  for  its 
possession. 

Poor  swallow-tail  coat  of  mine,  of  supple 
broadcloth,  companion  of  my  drudgery  x  and 
witness  of  my  poverty,  I  abandon  you  with- 
out regret  for  the  peasant's  jacket;  you  are 
reposing  in  a  drawer,  with  a  few  bags  of 
camphorated  lavender;  the  housewife  keeps 
an  eye  on  you  and  shakes  you  from  time  to 
time.  Useless  pains!  You  will  perish  by 
the  Clothes-moths,  as  the  Mole  perished  by 
the  maggot,  the  Snake  by  the  Dermestes 
and  we  ourselves  by.  ...  Let  us  not  dig 
that  last  pit  of  all  before  the  hour  has 
struck.  Everything  must  return  to  the  ren- 
ovating crucible  into  which  death  is  contin- 
ually pouring  materials  to  ensure  the  con- 
tinual blossoming  of  life. 


1  This  is  a  reference  to  the  days  when  the  author  was 
a   provincial    schoolmaster.     Cf.    The   Life   of   the   Fly: 
chaps,  xiii.,  xiv.,  xix.,  and  xx. — Translator's  Note. 
71 


CHAPTER    IV 

MINOTAURUS  TYPHCEUS    :  THE  BURROW 

'TPO  describe  the  insect  which  forms  the 
•••  subject  of  this  chapter,  scientific  nomen- 
clature has  combined  two  formidable  names : 
that  of  the  Minotaur,  Minos'  Bull  fed  on 
human  flesh  in  the  windings  of  the  Cretan 
labyrinth,  and  that  of  Typhon  or  Typhceus, 
one  of  the  giants,  sons  of  Terra,  who  at- 
tempted to  scale  heaven.  Thanks  to  the 
clue  of  thread  which  he  received  from  Mi- 
nos' daughter  Ariadne,  Theseus  the  Athen- 
ian found  the  Minotaur,  slew  him,  and  came 
out  safe  and  sound,  after  delivering  his 
country  for  ever  from  the  dreadful  tribute 
destined  for  the  monster's  food. 

Typhoeus,  struck  by  a  thunder-bolt  on  his 
piled-up  mountains,  was  hurled  into  the 
flanks  of  Etna.  He  is  still  there.  His 
breath  is  the  smoke  of  the  volcano.  When 
he  coughs,  he  spews  forth  streams  of  lava; 
when  he  shifts  his  weight  from  shoulder  to 
72 


The  Burrow 

shoulder,  he  puts  all  Sicily  in  a  flutter:  he 
shakes  her  with  an  earthquake. 

It  is  not  unpleasing  to  find  an  echo  of 
these  old  fables  in  natural  history.  Mytho- 
logical names,  so  resonant  and  grateful  to 
the  ear,  do  not  entail  any  contradiction  with 
reality,  a  defect  not  always  avoided  by  terms 
entirely  built  up  of  data  derived  from  the 
lexicon.  When,  moreover,  vague  analogies 
connect  the  fabulous  with  the  historical, 
then  the  happiest  surnames  and  forenames 
are  obtained.  Minotaurus  Typhceus  LIN. 
is  an  instance  in  point.  It  is  the  name  given 
to  a  fair-sized  black  Beetle,  closely  related 
to  the  earth-borers,  the  Geotrupes.1  This 
is  a  peaceable,  inoffensive  creature,  but  even 
better  provided  with  horns  than  Minos'  Bull. 
None  among  our  armour-loving  insects  wears 
so  threatening  a  panoply.  The  male  carries 
on  his  corselet  a  bundle  of  three  sharp  spears, 
parallel  and  pointed  forwards.  Imagine 
him  the  size  of  a  Bull:  Theseus  himself,  if 
he  met  him  in  the  fields,  would  not  dare  to 
face  his  terrible  trident. 

The  Typhoeus  of  the  legend  had  the  am- 
bition to  sack  the  home  of  the  gods  by  stack- 

1  The    Beetle    under    consideration    is    known    to   some 
nomenclators  as  Geotrupes  Typhoeus. — Translator's  Note. 
73 


More  Beetles 

ing  one  atop  of  the  other  a  pile  of  mountains 
wrenched  from  their  base;  the  Typhoeus  of 
the  naturalists  does  not  climb:  he  descends; 
he  bores  the  soil  to  enormous  depths.  The 
first,  with  a  heave  of  the  shoulder,  set  a 
province  trembling;  the  second,  with  a 
thrust  of  his  back,  makes  his  little  mound 
quake  as  Etna  quakes  when  he  who  lies 
buried  beneath  her  stirs. 

Such  is  the  insect  which  I  propose  to  study 
to-day,  penetrating  as  far  as  may  be  into  the 
secret  sources  of  its  actions.  The  few  par- 
ticulars which  I  have  already  gained,  during 
the  long  period  of  my  acquaintance  with  it, 
make  me  suspect  habits  worthy  of  a  fuller 
record. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  this  record,  what 
the  use  of  all  this  minute  research?  I  well 
know  that  it  will  not  bring  about  a  fall  in 
the  price  of  pepper,  a  rise  in  that  of  crates 
of  rotten  cabbages  or  other  serious  events 
of  this  sort,  which  cause  fleets  to  be  manned 
and  set  people  face  to  face  intent  upon  ex- 
terminating one  another.  The  insect  does 
not  aspire  to  so  much  glory.  It  confines  it- 
self to  showing  us  life  in  all  the  inexhaustible 
variety  of  its  manifestations;  it  helps  us  to 
74 


The  Burrow 

decipher  in  some  small  measure  the  obscur- 
est book  of  all,  the  book  of  ourselves. 

Insects  are  easy  to  obtain,  by  no  means 
burdensome  to  feed  and  not  repulsive  when 
subjected  to  a  physical  examination;  and  they 
lend  themselves  far  better  than  the  higher 
animals  to  our  curious  investigations.  Be- 
sides, the  others  are  our  near  kinsfolk  and 
do  but  repeat  a  somewhat  monotonous  theme, 
whereas  insects,  with  their  unparalleled 
wealth  of  instincts,  habits  and  structure,  re- 
veal a  new  world  to  us,  much  as  though  we 
were  conferring  with  the  natives  of  another 
planet.  This  is  why  I  hold  insects  in  such 
high  esteem  and  constantly  renew  my  untir- 
ing relations  with  them. 

Minotaurus  Typhaeus  affects  the  open 
sandy  places  where  the  flocks  of  Sheep,  on 
their  way  to  the  pasture,  scatter  their  trails 
of  black  pellets,  which  constitute  his  daily 
food.  In  their  absence,  he  also  accepts  the 
tiny  products  of  the  Rabbit,  which  are  easy 
to  gather,  for  the  timid  rodent,  perhaps 
afraid  of  scattering  broadcast  the  evidences 
of  his  whereabouts,  always  goes  to  some  ac- 
customed spot  surrounded  by  tufts  of  thyme, 
to  deposit  his  droppings. 
75 


More  Beetles 

These  to  the  Minotaur  represent  victuals 
of  inferior  quality,  utilized,  in  the  absence  of 
anything  better,  for  his  own  nourishment,  but 
not  served  to  his  family.  He  prefers  those 
supplied  by  the  flock.  Were  it  a  matter 
of  naming  him  according  to  his  tastes,  we 
should  have  to  call  him  the  assiduous  col- 
lector of  Sheep-droppings.  This  pastoral 
predilection  did  not  escape  the  old  observers, 
one  of  whom  speaks  of  him  as  the  Sheep  Sca- 
rab, Scarabteus  ovinus. 

The  burrows,  which  may  be  recognized  by 
the  little  mound  that  surmounts  them  first 
become  numerous  in  autumn,  when  the  rains 
have  at  last  come  to  moisten  the  soil  parched 
by  the  scorching  heat  of  summer.  Then 
the  young  of  this  year  emerge  slowly  from 
underground  and  for  the  first  time  come  out 
to  enjoy  the  light;  then,  for  a  few  weeks, 
they  feast  in  temporary  marquees;  and  next 
they  begin  to  hoard  with  a  view  to  the 
winter. 

Let  us  inspect  the  dwelling:  an  easy  task, 
for  which  a  simple  pocket-trowel  will  suffice. 
The  mansion  occupied  in  the  late  autumn  is 
a  shaft  as  wide  as  a  man's  finger  and  about 
nine  inches  deep.  There  is  no  special  cham- 
ber, but  a  sunk  pit,  as  perpendicular  as  the 
76 


The  Burrow 

inequalities  of  the  soil  will  allow  it  to  be. 
The  owner,  now  of  one  sex,  now  of  the  other, 
is  at  the  bottom,  always  alone.  The  time 
to  settle  down  and  establish  a  family  not 
having  yet  arrived,,  each  of  them  lives  like 
an  anchorite  and  thinks  only  of  his  own  wel- 
fare. Above  the  hermit  a  vertical  column 
of  Sheep-droppings  blocks  the  dwelling. 
There  is  often  enough  to  fill  the  palm  of 
one's  hand. 

How  did  the  Minotaur  acquire  so  much 
wealth?  He  amasses  it  easily,  being  spared 
the  worry  of  seeking  it,  for  he  is  always 
careful  to  install  himself  near  a  copious  def- 
ecation. He  gleans  on  the  very  threshold 
of  his  door.  When  he  thinks  fit,  especially 
at  night,  he  chooses  from  the  heap  of  pellets 
one  to  suit  him.  Using  his  clypeus  as  a  le- 
ver, he  loosens  it  below;  rolling  it  gently, 
he  brings  it  to  the  orifice  of  the  pit,  where 
the  booty  is  swallowed  up.  More  follow, 
one  by  one,  all  easily  handled  because  of 
the  olive-like  shape.  They  roll  like  casks 
trundled  by  the  cooper. 

When  the  Sacred  Beetle  proposes  to  go 
banqueting  underground  far  from  the  mad- 
ding crowd,  he  packs  his  share  of  victuals 
into  a  ball;  he  gives  it  its  spherical  form, 

77 


More  Beetles 

that  best  adapted  to  transport.  The  Mino- 
taur, though  also  versed  in  the  mechanics  of 
rolling,  has  no  occasion  to  make  these  prepa- 
rations :  the  Sheep  saves  him  the  trouble  by 
modelling  fragments  which  are  easily  moved. 

At  last,  satisfied  with  his  harvest,  the 
gleaner  goes  indoors.  What  will  he  do 
with  his  treasure?  Feed  on  it,  that  goes 
without  saying,  until  the  cold  and  its  con- 
sequent torpor  stay  the  appetite.  But  eat- 
ing is  not  everything.  In  the  winter,  certain 
precautions  become  essential  in  a  retreat  of 
only  middling  depth.  When  December 
draws  nigh,  already  we  find  a  few  mounds 
as  large  as  those  of  spring.  They  corre- 
spond with  burrows  running  down  three  feet 
or  more.  In  these  deeply  buried  crypts 
there  is  always  a  female  who,  sheltered  from 
the  rough  weather  outside,  is  frugally  nib- 
bling at  her  scanty  provender. 

Dwellings  like  these,  with  an  equable 
temperature,  are  still  rare.  The  majority, 
always  occupied  by  a  single  inhabitant, 
whether  male  or  female,  are  barely  nine 
inches  deep.  As  a  rule,  they  are  padded 
with  a  thick  blanket,  obtained  from  dry  pel- 
lets, crumbled  and  reduced  to  shreds.  We 
may  take  it  that  this  fibrous  mass,  which  is 
78 


The  Burrow 

eminently  fitted  to  retain  the  heat,  has  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  the  hermit's  comfort 
in  severe  weather.  In  the  late  autumn,  the 
Minotaur  hoards  so  that  he  may  take  refuge 
in  a  felt  mattress  when  the  cold  really  sets  in. 

Couples  addicted  to  nest-building  in  con- 
cert begin  to  meet  in  the  early  days  of 
March.  The  two  sexes,  hitherto  isolated  in 
burrows  near  the  surface,  are  now  associated 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  Where  does  the 
meeting  take  place,  where  is  the  agreement 
to  collaborate  concluded?  One  fact,  to  be- 
gin with,  attracts  my  attention.  At  the  end 
of  autumn,  as  in  winter,  females  abound 
as  frequently  as  the  males.  When  March 
comes,  I  find  hardly  any,  so  much  so  that  I 
despair  of  properly  stocking  the  cage  in 
which  I  propose  to  observe  the  insects' 
habits.  To  fifteen  males  I  unearth  three  fe- 
males at  most.  What  has  become  of  the 
latter,  so  numerous  in  the  beginning? 

True,  I  am  excavating  the  burrows  most 
readily  accessible  to  my  pocket-trowel.  Per- 
haps the  secret  of  the  absentees  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  those  retreats  which  are  more 
difficult  to  inspect.  Let  us  appeal  to  arms, 
suppler  and  stronger  than  my  own;  let  us 
take  a  spade  and  dig  deep  into  the  soil.  I 
79 


More  Beetles 

am  rewarded  for  my  perseverance;  Females 
are  found  at  last,  as  many  as  I  could  wish. 
They  are  alone,  without  provisions,  at  the 
bottom  of  a  perpendicular  gallery  whose 
depth  would  discourage  any  one  not  endowed 
with  exemplary  patience. 

Everything  is  now  explained.  From  the 
time  of  the  spring  awakening  and  even  some- 
times at  the  end  of  autumn,  before  they  have 
made  the  acquaintance  of  their  collabora- 
tors, the  valiant  future  mothers  set  to  work, 
choosing  a  good  place  and  sinking  a  shaft 
which,  if  it  does  not  yet  attain  the  requisite 
depth,  will  at  least  be  the  starting-point  of 
more  considerable  works.  It  is  in  these 
shafts,  more  or  less  advanced,  that  the 
suitors  come  in  search  of  the  workers,  at 
the  secret  hours  of  the  twilight.  Some- 
times there  are  several  of  them.  It  is  not 
uncommon  to  find  two  or  three  gathered 
round  the  same  bride.  As  one  is  enough, 
the  others  decamp  and  pursue  their  quest 
elsewhere,  as  soon  as  the  lady's  choice  and 
perhaps  a  bit  of  a  skirmish  have  concluded 
the  matter. 

The  quarrels  among  these  pacific  crea- 
tures cannot  be  very  serious.  A  little  grap- 
pling with  the  legs,  whose  toothed  shanks 
80 


The  Burrow 

grate  upon  the  rigid  harness;  a  few  tumbles 
provoked  by  blows  of  the  trident :  the  strife 
amounts  to  no  more  than  this.  When  the 
superfluous  wooers  are  gone,  the  pairing 
takes  place,  the  household  is  established;  and 
then  and  there  bonds  are  contracted  which 
are  remarkably  enduring. 

Are  these  bonds  never  dissolved?  Do 
the  husband  and  wife  recognize  each  other 
among  their  fellows?  Are  they  mutually 
faithful?  Cases  of  connubial  disloyalty  are 
very  rare,  are  in  fact  unknown,  on  the  part 
of  the  mother,  who  has  long  ceased  to  leave 
the  house;  on  the  other  hand,  they  are  fre- 
quent on  the  part  of  the  father,  whose  duties 
often  compel  him  to  go  abroad.  As  we 
shall  see  presently,  he  is  throughout  his  life 
the  purveyor  of  victuals,  the  person  ap- 
pointed to  cart  away  the  rubbish.  Single- 
handed,  at  different  hours  of  the  day,  he 
shoots  out  of  doors  the  earth  thrown  up  by 
the  mother's  excavations;  single-handed  he 
explores  the  surroundings  of  the  house  at 
night,  in  quest  of  pellets  whereof  to  knead 
the  children's  loaves. 

Sometimes  two  burrows  are  side  by  side. 
May  not  the  collector  of  provisions,  on  re- 
turning home,  easily  mistake  the  door  and 
81 


More  Beetles 

enter  another's  house?  On  his  walks 
abroad,  does  he  never  happen  to  meet  ladies 
taking  the  air  who  have  not  yet  settled  down 
and  then,  forgetful  of  his  first  mate,  does 
he  not  qualify  for  divorce?  The  question 
was  worth  looking  into.  I  have  tried  to 
solve  it  in  the  following  manner. 

I  take  two  couples  from  the  ground  when 
the  excavations  are  in  full  swing.  Indelible 
marks,  scratched  with  a  needle  on  the  lower 
edge  of  the  wing-cases,  will  enable  me  to  dis- 
tinguish them  one  from  the  other.  The 
four  objects  of  my  experiment  are  distrib- 
uted at  random,  singly,  over  the  surface  of 
a  sandy  space  some  eighteen  inches  deep. 
Soil  of  this  depth  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
excavations  of  a  night.  In  case  provisions 
should  be  needed,  I  supply  a  handful  of 
Sheep-droppings.  A  large  earthenware  pan, 
turned  upside  down,  covers  the  arena,  pre- 
vents escape  and  affords  the  darkness  fa- 
vourable to  peaceful  concentration. 

Next  day,  I  obtain  splendid  results. 
There  are  two  burrows  in  the  settlement  and 
no  more;  the  couples  have  formed  again  as 
they  were :  each  Jack  has  recovered  his  Jill. 
A  second  experiment,  made  next  day,  and 
yet  a  third  meet  with  the  same  success:  the 
82 


The  Burrow 

marked  couples  are  together,  those  not 
marked  are  together,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft. 

Five  times  more,  day  after  day,  I  make 
them  set  up  house  anew.  Things  now  be- 
gin to  go  amiss.  Sometimes  each  of  my  four 
subjects  settles  down  apart  from  the  rest; 
sometimes  the  same  burrow  contains  the  two 
males  or  the  two  females;  sometimes  the 
same  vault  receives  the  two  sexes,  but 
associated  otherwise  than  in  the  beginning. 
I  have  repeated  the  experiment  too  often. 
Henceforth,  disorder  reigns.  My  daily 
shufflings  have  demoralized  the  diggers;  a 
crumbling  house  that  has  constantly  to  be 
begun  afresh  has  put  an  end  to  lawful  unions. 
Respectable  married  life  becomes  impossible 
from  the  moment  when  the  house  falls  in 
from  day  to  day. 

No  matter:  the  first  three  experiments, 
made  when  scares,  time  after  time  renewed, 
had  not  yet  tangled  the  delicate  connecting 
thread,  seem  to  point  to  a  certain  constancy 
in  the  Minotaur's  household.  The  male 
and  female  recognize  each  other,  find  each 
other  in  the  confusion  of  events  which  my 
mischievous  doings  force  upon  them;  they 
exhibit  a  mutual  fidelity,  a  very  unusual 
83 


More  Beetles 

quality  in  the  insect  class,  which  is  but  too 
prone  to  forget  its  matrimonial  obligations. 

How  do  they  recognize  each  other?  We 
recognize  one  another  by  our  facial  features, 
which  vary  so  greatly  in  different  individuals, 
notwithstanding  their  common  likeness. 
They,  to  tell  the  truth,  have  no  faces;  there 
is  no  expression  beneath  their  rigid  masks. 
Besides,  things  happen  in  profound  dark- 
ness. The  sensd  of  sight  therefore  does  not 
count  at  all. 

We  recognize  one  another  by  our  speech, 
by  the  tone,  the  inflection  of  our  voices. 
They  are  dumb,  deprived  of  all  means  of 
vocal  appeal.  There  remains  the  sense  of 
smell.  Minotaurus  finding  his  mate  makes 
me  think  of  my  friend  Tom,  the  house-dog, 
who,  when  the  moon  stirs  his  emotions,  lifts 
his  nose  in  the  air,  sniffs  the  breeze  and 
jumps  the  garden-walls,  eager  to  obey  the 
remote  and  magical  summons;  he  puts  me  in 
mind  of  the  Great  Peacock  Moth,1  who 
hastens  from  miles  afield  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  newly-hatched  maid. 

The  comparison,  however,  is  far  from 
being  complete,  the  Dog  and  the  big  Moth 

1  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chap.  xi. — 
Translator's  Note.  • 

84 


The  Burrow 

get  wind  of  the  wedding  before  they  know 
the  bride.  The  Minotaur,  on  the  contrary, 
has  no  experience  of  long  pilgrimages  and 
makes  his  way,  within  a  short  radius,  to  her 
whom  he  has  already  frequented;  he  recog- 
nizes her,  he  distinguishes  her  from  the 
others  by  certain  emanations,  certain  indi- 
vidual secrets  inappreciable  to  any  save  the 
enamoured  swain.  Of  what  do  these  efflu- 
via consist?  The  insect  did  not  tell  me;  and 
that  is  a  pity,  for  it  might  have  taught  us 
things  worth  knowing  about  its  powers  of 
smell. 

Now  how  is  the  work  divided  in  this 
household?  To  discover  this  is  no  easy  un- 
dertaking, for  which  the  point  of  a  penknife 
will  suffice.  He  who  proposes  to  inspect  the 
burrowing  insect  in  its  home  must  resort  to 
exhausting  excavations.  We  have  not  here 
the  chamber  of  the  Sacred  Beetle,  the  Copris 
or  other  Beetles,  which  is  uncovered  with- 
out trouble  with  a  mere  pocket-trowel;  we 
have  a  shaft  whose  floor  can  be  reached  only 
with  a  stout  spade,  manfully  wielded  for 
hours  at  a  stretch.  And,  if  the  sun  be  at 
all  hot,  you  return  from  your  drudgery,  feel- 
ing utterly  worn  out. 

Oh,  my  poor  joints,  grown  rusty  with  age ! 
85 


More  Beetles 

To  suspect  the  existence  of  a  beautiful 
problem  underground  and  to  be  unable  to 
dig!  The  zeal  survives,  as  ardent  as  in  the 
days  when  I  used  to  demolish  the  spongy 
slopes  beloved  of  the  Anthophorae ; 1  the  love 
of  research  has  not  abated;  but  my  strength 
fails  me.  Fortunately  I  have  an  assistant 
in  the  person  of  my  son  Paul,  who  lends  me 
the  vigour  of  his  wrists  and  the  suppleness 
of  his  back.  I  am  the  head,  he  is  the  arm. 
The  rest  of  the  family,  including  the 
mother — and  she  not  the  least  eager — usu- 
ally go  with  us.  You  cannot  employ  too 
many  eyes  when  the  pit  becomes  deep  and 
you  have  to  observe  from  a  distance  the  tiny 
objects  unearthed  by  the  spade.  What  one 
overlooks  another  will  detect.  Huber,2 
when  he  was  blind,  studied  the  Bees  through 
the  intermediary  of  a  clear-sighted  and  de- 
voted helper.  I  am  even  better  off  than  the 
great  Swiss  naturalist.  My  sight,  which  is 
still  fairly  good  though  much  worn,  is  as- 

1  A  genus  of  wild  Bees.     Cf.  Bramble-bees  and  Others, 
by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de 
Mattos:    chaps,    iv.    and    vii.    and    passim. — Translator's 
Note. 

2  Franqois    Huber     (1750-1831),    the    Swiss    naturalist, 
author  of  Nouvelles   Observations  sur  les  Abeilles.     He 
early  became  blind   from  excessive  study  and  thereafter 
conducted  his  scientific  work  with  the  aid  of  his  wife. — 
Translator's  Note. 

86 


The  Burrow 

sisted  by  the  perspicacious  eyes  of  all  my 
family.  I  owe  it  to  them  that  I  am  able  to 
continue  my  research-work:  let  me  thank 
them  here  and  now. 

We  are  on  the  spot  early  in  the  morning. 
We  find  a  burrow  with  a  large  mound  formed 
of  cylindrical  plugs  forced  out  as  though  by 
blows  of  the  hammer.  We  clear  away  this 
hillock  and  a  pit  opens  below  it.  A  good, 
long  reed,  gathered  on  the  way,  is  inserted 
in  the  hole.  Pushed  farther  home,  as  the 
surface  soil  is  cleared  away,  it  will  serve  us 
as  a  guide. 

The  soil  is  quite  loose,  unmixed  with  peb- 
bles, which  are  obnoxious  to  the  digging  in- 
sect that  loves  the  perpendicular  and 
especially  obnoxious  to  the  cutting  edge  of 
the  exploring  spade.  It  consists  solely  of 
sand  cemented  with  a  little  clay.  The  dig- 
ging would  therefore  be  easy,  if  one  had  not 
to  reach  depths  in  which  tools  become  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  handle  unless  the  whole 
area  is  overturned.  The  following  method 
gives  good  results  without  unduly  increasing 
the  volume  of  earth  removed,  a  procedure 
to  which  the  owner  might  object. 

A  space  of  roughly  a  yard  in  radius  is 
attacked  around  the  shaft.  As  the  guiding 
87 


More  Beetles 

reed  is  laid  bare,  we  push  it  lower  in.  It 
began  by  going  about  nine  inches  under- 
ground, it  is  now  eighteen  inches  down. 
Soon  it  becomes  impracticable  to  remove  the 
earth  with  the  spade,  which  is  hampered  by 
lack  of  room.  We  have  to  go  on  o,ur  knees, 
collect  the  rubbish  in  both  hands  and  toss  it 
outside.  The  more  we  do  so,  the  deeper 
the  hole  becomes,  increasing  the  already 
enormous  difficulty.  A  moment  arrives 
when,  to  continue,  we  are  obliged  to  lie  flat 
on  our  stomachs  and  dip  the  front  of  our 
bodies  into  the  hole,  as  far  as  our  more  or 
less  supple  waists  allow.  Each  dip  flings  up 
a  good  handful  of  earth.  And  the  reed 
goes  lower  and  lower,  without  giving  any 
indication  of  an  immediate  check. 

It  is  impossible  for  my  son  to  continue  in 
this  fashion,  despite  his  youthful  elasticity. 
To  reach  the  bottom  of  the  disheartening 
cavity,  he  lowers  the  level  of  the  sustaining 
soil.  A  cut  is  made  at  one  side  of  the  circu- 
lar pit,  giving  just  enough  space  to  admit  his 
two  knees.  This  is  a  shelf,  a  ledge,  which 
will  be  lowered  as  we  go  on.  The  work  is 
resumed,  this  time  more  actively;  but  the 
reed,  when  we  consult  it,  descends,  descends 
to  a  great  depth. 


The  Burrow 

We  lower  the  supporting  shelf  still  more 
and  employ  the  spade  again.  When  the  rub- 
bish is  removed,  the  excavation  is  more  than 
three  feet  deep.  Are  we  there  at  last? 
Not  at  all :  the  terrible  reed  dives  still  lower 
down.  Let  us  sink  the  ledge  again  and  con- 
tinue. Perseverance  is  rewarded.  At  four 
feet  and  a  half,  the  reed  touches  the  ob- 
stacle; it  goes  no  farther.  Victory!  The 
task  is  done:  we  have  reached  the  Mino- 
taur's chamber. 

The  pocket-trowel  discreetly  lays  it  bare 
and  the  occupants  appear:  first  the  male, 
and,  a  little  lower  down,  the  female. 
When  the  couple  are  removed,  a  dark,  cir- 
cular patch  is  seen:  this  is  the  top  of  the 
column  of  provisions.  Let  us  be  careful : 
dig  gently!  What  we  have  to  do  is  to  cut 
away  the  central  clod  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pit,  to  separate  it  from  the  surrounding 
earth  and  then,  slipping  the  trowel  under- 
neath and  using  it  as  a  lever,  to  extract  the 
block  all  in  a  lump.  There !  That's  done ! 
We  have  the  couple  and  their  nest.  A 
morning  of  arduous  digging  has  procured  us 
these  treasures:  Paul's  broiling  back  can  tell 
us  at  the  cost  of  what  efforts. 

This  depth  of  nearly  five  feet  is  not  and 
89 


More  Beetles 

could  not  be  uniform:  there  are  many  causes 
that  induce  it  to  vary,  such  as  the  degree  of 
moisture  and  consistency  in  the  soil  tra- 
versed, the  insect's  passion  for  work  and  the 
time  available,  according  to  the  more  or  less 
remote  date  of  the  egg-laying.  I  have  seen 
burrows  dip  a  little  deeper;  I  have  seen 
others  reach  not  quite  three  feet.  In  any 
case,  MinotauruSj  to  settle  his  family,  re- 
quires a  lodging  of  extravagant  depth,  such 
as  is  dug  by  no  other  burrower  of  my  ac- 
quaintance. Presently  we  shall  have  to  ask 
ourselves  what  imperious  needs  oblige  the 
collector  of  Sheep-droppings  to  dwell  at 
such  depths. 

Before  leaving  the  spot,  let  us  note  a  fact 
whose  evidence  will  be  of  value  later.  The 
female  was  right  at  the  bottom  of  the  bur- 
row; above  her,  at  some  distance,  was  the 
male :  both  were  struck  motionless  with 
fright  in  the  midst  of  an  occupation  whose 
nature  we  are  as  yet  hardly  able  to  specify. 
This  detail,  observed  repeatedly  in  the  dif- 
ferent burrows  dug  up,  seems  to  show  that 
each  of  the  two  fellow-workers  has  a  def- 
inite place. 

The  mother,  more  skilled  in  nursery  mat- 
ters, occupies  the  lower  floor.  She  alone 
90 


The  Burrow 

digs,  versed  as  she  is  in  the  properties  of 
the  perpendicular,  which  economizes  labour 
while  giving  the  greatest  depth.  She  is  the 
engineer,  always  in  touch  with  the  working- 
face  of  the  shaft.  The  other  is  her 
labourer.  He  is  stationed  in  the  rear,  ready 
to  load  the  rubbish  on  his  horny  hod.  Later, 
the  excavatrix  becomes  a  baker:  she  kneads 
the  cakes  for  the  children  into  cylinders;  the 
father  is  then  the  baker's  boy.  He  brings 
her  from  outside  the  wherewithal  for  making 
flour.  As  in  every  well-regulated  house- 
hold, the  mother  is  minister  of  the  interior, 
the  father  minister  of  the  exterior.  This 
would  explain  the  invariable  position  in  their 
cylindrical  home.  The  future  will  tell  us  if 
these  conjectures  truly  correspond  with  the 
reality. 

For  the  moment,  let  us  examine  at  our 
leisure,  in  the  comfort  of  our  own  home, 
the  central  clod,  so  laboriously  acquired.  It 
contains  a  preserved  foodstuff  in  the  shape 
of  a  sausage  nearly  as  long  and  as  thick  as  a 
man's  finger.  This  is  composed  of  a  dark, 
compact  material,  arranged  in  layers,  which 
we  recognize  as  the  Sheep-pellets  reduced  to 
small  crumbs.  Sometimes  the  dough  is  fine 
and  almost  homogeneous  from  one  end  of 
91 


More  Beetles 

the  cylinder  to  the  other;  more  often  the 
piece  is  a  sort  of  hardbake,  in  which  large 
fragments  are  held  together  by  an  amalga- 
mation of  cement.  The  baker  apparently 
varies  the  more  or  less  careful  composition 
of  her  confectionery  according  to  the  time 
at  her  disposal. 

The  stuff  is  tightly  packed  into  the  closed 
end  of  the  burrow,  where  the  walls  are 
smoother  and  more  elaborately  treated  than 
in  the  rest  of  the  shaft.  The  point  of  the 
knife  easily  rids  it  of  the  surrounding  earth, 
which  peels  off  like  a  rind.  In  this  way  I 
obtain  the  food-cylinder  free  from  any 
earthy  stain. 

When  this  is  done,  let  us  enquire  into  the 
matter  of  the  egg,  for  this  pastry  has  cer- 
tainly been  manipulated  for  the  sake  of  a 
grub.  Guided  by  what  I  learnt  in  the  old 
days  from  the  Geotrupes,  who  lodge  the  egg 
at  the  lower  end  of  their  black-pudding,  in 
a  special  recess  contrived  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  provisions,  I  look  to  find  the  egg  of 
the  Minotaur,  their  near  kinsmen,  in  a 
hatching-chamber  right  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sausage.  I  am  mistaken.  The  egg  sought 
for  is  not  at  the  spot  anticipated,  nor  at  the 
92 


The  Burrow 

other  end,  nor  in  any  part  whatsoever  of  the 
victuals. 

A  search  outside  the  provisions  reveals 
it  me  at  last.  It  is  below  the  food,  in  the 
sand  itself,  and  has  benefited  by  none  of  the 
meticulous  cares  wherein  mothers  excel. 
There  is  here  not  a  smooth-walled  chamber, 
such  as  the  delicate  skin  of  the  new-born 
larva  would  seem  to  demand,  but  a  rough, 
irregular  cavity,  the  result  of  a  mere  falling 
in  rather  than  of  material  ingenuity.  The 
grub  is  to  be  hatched  in  this  rude  crib,  at 
some  distance  from  its  provisions.  To 
reach  the  food,  it  will  have  to  demolish  and 
pass  through  a  ceiling  of  sand  some  millime- 
tres thick.  As  regards  her  offspring,  the 
Minotaur  mother  is  an  expert  in  the  art  of 
sausage-making,  but  she  knows  nothing  at 
all  of  the  endearments  of  the  cradle. 

Anxious  to  watch  the  hatching  and  observe 
the  growth  of  the  larva,  I  install  my  find  in 
cells  reproducing  as  nearly  as  may  be  the 
natural  conditions.  A  glass  tube  closed  at 
one  end  of  the  same  diameter  as  the  burrow 
receives  first  a  bed  of  moist  sand  to  repre- 
sent the  original  soil.  On  the  surface  of 
this  layer  I  place  the  egg.  A  little  of  the 
same  sand  forms  the  ceiling  through  which 

93 


More  Beetles 

the  new-born  grub  must  pass  to  reach  the 
provisions.  There  are  none  other  than  the 
regulation  sausage,  rid  of  its  earthy  rind. 
A  few  careful  strokes  of  the  rammer  make 
it  occupy  the  available  space.  Lastly,  a  plug 
of  wet,  but  not  dripping  cotton-wool  fills  up 
the  cell  completely.  This  will  be  a  source 
of  permanent  moisture,  similar  to  that  of 
the  depths  in  which  the  mother  establishes 
her  family.  The  provisions  will  thus  re- 
main soft,  in  accordance  with  the  youthful 
consumer's  needs. 

This  softness  of  the  food  and  the  flavour 
produced  by  the  fermentation  due  to  mois- 
ture probably  have  somthing  to  say  to  the 
instinct  to  bore  deeply  at  the  time  of  egg- 
laying.  What  do  the  father  and  mother 
really  want?  Do  they  dig  to  ensure  their 
own  welfare]?  Do  they  go  so  low  down  in 
order  to  find  an  agreeable  temperature  and 
moisture  when  the  fierce  summer  heat  pre- 
vails? Not  at  all.  Endowed  with  a  robust 
constitution  and  loving  the  sun's  kisses  as 
other  insects  do,  they  both  inhabit,  until  the 
family  is  founded,  a  modest  dwelling  in  a 
convenient  position.  Not  even  the  inclem- 
encies of  winter  drive  them  to  seek  a  better 
shelter. 

94 


The  Burrow 

At  nesting-time  it  is  another  matter. 
They  descend  to  a  great  depth  underground. 
Why?  Because  their  family,  which  is 
hatched  about  June,  must  find  soft  food 
awaiting  it  at  a  time  when  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer will  bake  the  soil  hard  as  a  brick.  The 
tiny  sausage,  if  it  lay  at  a  depth  of  ten  or 
twenty  inches,  would  become  hard  as  horn 
and  uneatable ;  and  the  grub,  incapable  of  bit- 
ing into  the  tough  ration,  would  perish.  It  is 
important  therefore  that  the  victuals  should 
be  cellared  at  a  depth  where  the  most  violent 
heat  of  the  sun  cannot  lead  to  desiccation. 

Many  other  food-packers  know  the  risks 
of  excessive  dryness.  Each  has  his  own 
method  of  warding  off  the  danger.  The 
Geotrupes  makes  his  home  under  the  volu- 
minous heap  dropped  by  the  Mule,  an  excel- 
lent obstacle  to  speedy  desiccation.  Besides, 
he  works  in  autumn,  the  season  of  frequent 
showers ;  moreover,  he  gives  his  product  the 
shape  of  a  big  roly-poly,  of  which  the  middle 
part,  the  only  part  used,  gives  up  its  mois- 
ture very  slowly.  For  these  several  reasons, 
he  digs  burrows  of  medium  depth. 

The  Sacred  Beetle  likewise  attaches  no 
value  to  remote  retreats.  He  houses  his  off- 
spring in  vaults  at  no  great  distance  from  the 

95 


More  Beetles 

surface  of  the  soil;  but  he  makes  amends  by 
fashioning  the  victuals  into  a  ball :  he  knows 
that  round  tins  keep  their  contents  moist. 
The  Copris  does  very  much  the  same  with  his 
ovoids.  So  with  the  others,  the  Sisyphus,1 
the  Gymnopleurus.2  The  Minotaur  alone 
takes  an  enormous  dive  underground. 

There  are  different  reasons  that  call  for 
this.  Here  is  a  second,  more  imperious  even 
than  the  first.  The  dung-workers  all  go  for 
recent  materials,  fully  endowed  with  their 
toothsome  and  plastic  qualities.  To  this 
system  of  baking  the  Minotaur  makes  a 
stronger  exception :  what  he  needs  is  old,  dry, 
arid  stuff.  I  have  never  seen  him,  either  in 
my  cages  or  in  the  open  country,  gather  pel- 
lets quite  recently  ejected.  He  wants  them 
dried  by  long  exposure  to  the  sun's  rays. 

But,  to  suit  the  grub,  the  hard  food  has 
to  simmer  for  a  long  time  and  to  improve 
by  keeping,  in  surroundings  saturated  with 
moisture.  So  the  coarse  whole-meal  bread 
is  replaced  by  the  bun.  The  laboratory  in 
which  the  children's  food  is  prepared  must 
therefore  be  a  very  deep-seated  factory, 
which  can  never  be  entered  by  the  drought 

1  The  Sacred   Beetle   and   Others:   chap,   x.,    Cf.   v— 
Translator's  Note. 

2  Cf.     idem,  chap.  viii. — Translator's  Note. 

96 


The  Burrow 

of  summer  however  long  prolonged.  Here 
succulence  and  flavour  are  imparted  to  dry 
materials  which  no  other  member  of  the 
stercoral  guild  thinks  of  employing,  for  lack 
of  an  annealing-chamber,  of  which  Mino- 
taurus  possesses  the  monopoly.  And,  the 
better  to  fulfil  his  mission  in  life,  he  also 
possesses  an  instinct  to  bore  to  enormous 
depths.  The  nature  of  the  victuals  makes 
an  incomparable  well-sinker  of  the  three- 
pronged  Dung-beetle;  his  talents  have  been 
determined  by  a  hard  crust. 


97 


CHAPTER    V 

MINOTAURUS     TYPHCEUS :     FIRST    ATTEMPTS 
AT  OBSERVATION 

LONG  ago,  the  Minotaur's  cousins,  the 
Geotrupes,  afforded  me  a  delightfully 
unusual  spectacle,  that  of  a  prolonged  associ- 
ation  in  pairs,  a  real  domestic  couple,  work- 
ing in  common  for  the  children's  welfare. 
Philemon  and  Baucis,  as  I  used  to  call  them, 
prepared  their  board  and  lodging  with  equal 
ardour.  Philemon,  the  sturdier  of  the  two, 
compressed  the  food  by  pushing  it  with  his 
fore-arms;  Baucis  explored  the  heap  on  the 
surface,  picking  out  the  best  part  and  lower- 
ing by  the  armful  the  wherewithal  to  manu- 
facture the  enormous  sausage.  It  was  mag- 
nificent to  see  the  mother  sifting  and  the 
father  compressing. 

A  cloud  overshadowed  this  exquisite  pic- 
ture. My  subjects  occupied  a  cage  wherein 
any  inspection  demanded  an  excavation  on 
my  part,  discreetly  conducted,  it  is  true,  but 
enough  to  startle  the  labourers  and  make 
98 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

them  stop  work.  With  unsparing  patience, 
I  thus  obtained  a  series  of  snapshots  which 
the  logic  of  things,  that  delicate  cinema- 
tographer,  afterwards  combined  to  form  a 
living  scene.  I  wished  for  more  than  this: 
I  should  have  liked  to  observe  the  couple  in 
continuous  action,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  their  task.  I  had  to  abandon  the 
idea,  so  impossible  did  it  seem  to  me  to  ob- 
serve the  mysterious  underground  happen- 
ings without  perturbing  excavations. 

To-day,  my  ambition  to  achieve  the  im- 
possible has  returned.  The  Minotaur  pro- 
claims himself  a  rival  of  the  Geotrupes;  he 
even  appears  to  be  their  superior.  I  pro- 
pose to  follow  his  actions  underground,  at 
a  depth  of  a  yard  and  more,  completely  at 
my  ease,  without  in  any  way  distracting  the 
insect  from  its  occupations.  To  do  this  I 
shall  need  the  eyes  of  a  Lynx,  which  are  said 
to  be  capable  of  piercing  the  opaquest  night, 
whereas  I  have  only  my  ingenuity  to  fall 
back  upon  in  endeavouring  to  see  plainly  in 
the  dark.  Let  us  see  what  it  can  do. 

To  begin  with,  the  direction  of  the  burrow 
enables  me  to  foresee  that  my  plan  is  not 
altogether  absurd.  When  digging  her  nest, 
the  Minotaur  descends  perpendicularly.  If 

99 


More  Beetles 

she  worked  at  random,  following  all  sorts 
of  directions,  excavation  would  demand  an 
infinite  area  of  soil,  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  means  at  my  disposal.  Well,  her  inva- 
riable adherence  to  the  perpendicular  in- 
forms me  that  I  need  not  trouble  about  the 
quantity  of  sand  available,  but  only  about 
the  depth  of  the  bed.  In  these  conditions, 
the  undertaking  is  not  unreasonable. 

As  good  luck  will  have  it,  I  possess  a 
glass  tube  which  has  long  been  diverted 
from  chemistry  and  placed  at  the  service  of 
entomology.  It  is  a  yard  or  more  in  length, 
and  over  an  inch  in  width.  If  fixed  in  a  ver- 
tical position,  it  will  do,  I  think,  for  the 
Minotaur's  shaft.  I  close  one  end  with  a 
plug  and  fill  the  tube  with  a  mixture  of  fine 
sand  and  moist  clay  soil,  packing  the  mix- 
ture in  layers  with  a  ramrod.  This  column 
will  be  the  plot  of  ground  allotted  to  the 
digger  to  work  in. 

But  it  must  be  kept  upright  and  completed 
with  different  accessories  essential  to  success- 
ful operation.  For  this  purpose,  three  bam- 
boo canes  are  planted  in  the  earth  contained 
in  a  large  flower-pot.  Joined  at  their  tips, 
they  form  a  tripod,  a  frame  supporting  the 
whole  structure.  The  tube  is  set  up  in  the 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

centre  of  the  triangular  base.  A  small 
earthenware  pie-dish  with  a  hole  made  in 
the  bottom,  receives  the  open  upper  end, 
which  projects  a  little  and  holds  a  layer  of 
earth  that  comes  level  with  the  brim.  This 
will  represent,  around  the  mouth  of  the 
shaft,  the  space  in  which  the  insect  can  attend 
to  its  business,  either  to  shoot  the  rubbish 
from  the  shaft  or  to  gather  the  provisions 
round  about.  Lastly,  a  glass  bell,  fitting 
into  the  dish,  prevents  escape  and  preserves 
the  slight  quantity  of  moisture  needed.  A 
few  supporting  strings  and  bits  of  wire  keep 
the  whole  thing  firmly  fixed. 

We  must  not  overlook  one  most  im- 
portant detail.  The  diameter  of  the  tube  is 
about  twice  that  of  the  natural  burrow. 
Therefore,  if  the  insect  digs  along  the  axis 
and  in  an  exactly  perpendicular  direction,  it 
will  have  at  its  disposal  more  than  the  re- 
quired width.  It  will  obtain  a  channel  lined 
on  every  side  by  a  wall  of  sand  a  few  milli- 
metres thick.  We  may  however  assume 
that  the  digger,  knowing  nothing  of  geomet- 
rical precision  and  ignorant  of  the  condi- 
tions provided  for  it,  will  take  no  account 
of  the  axis  and  will  deviate  from  it  to  one 
side  or  the  other.  Moreover,  the  least  ad- 

101 


More  Beetles 

ditional  resistance  in  the  substance  traversed 
will  cause  the  Beetle  to  turn  aside  slightly, 
now  hither,  now  thither.  Consequently  the 
glass  wall  will  be  completely  denuded  at  sun- 
dry points;  windows  will  be  formed,  chinks 
upon  which  I  rely  to  make  observation  pos- 
sible, but  which  will  be  hateful  to  the  dark- 
ness-loving workers. 

To  make  sure  of  these  windows  and  save 
the  insect  from  them,  I  sheath  the  tube  in  a 
few  cardboard  sheaths  which  can  be  gently 
slipped  up  and  down  and  which  fit  inside  one 
another.  With  this  arrangement,  I  shall  be 
able,  when  required,  and  without  distracting 
the  insect  from  its  work,  to  create  alter- 
nately, by  a  simple  movement  of  the  thumb, 
a  little  light  for  myself  and  darkness  for  the 
Beetle.  The  distribution  of  the  movable 
sheaths,  which  slip  up  or  down  as  needed, 
will  allow  the  tube  to  be  examined  from  end 
to  end  as  and  when  the  accidents  of  boring 
open  up  new  windows. 

A  last  precaution  is  necessary.  If  I 
merely  put  the  couple  simply  in  the  dish 
surmounted  by  the  bell-glass,  it  is  probable 
that  the  prisoners  will  not  realize  what  a 
small  portion  of  the  soil  is  available  for  dig- 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

ging.  It  will  be  best  for  me  to  teach  them 
the  right  spot  in  the  centre  of  an  impreg- 
nable area.  For  this  purpose,  I  leave  the 
top  of  the  tube  empty  to  a  depth  of  a  few 
fingers'-breadths;  and,  as  a  glass  wall  would 
be  impossible  to  climb,  I  provide  this  part 
with  a  lift,  that  is  to  say,  I  line  it  with  wire- 
gauze.  When  this  is  done,  the  two  insects, 
male  and  female,  unearthed  together  from 
their  natural  burrow,  are  inserted  into  this 
entrance-hall,  where  they  will  find  their  fa- 
miliar environment,  the  sandy  soil.  With  a 
little  food  scattered  about  the  pit,  it  will  be 
enough,  I  hope,  to  make  them  like  their  pecu- 
liar lodging. 

What  results  shall  I  obtain  with  my  rustic 
apparatus,  so  long  planned  by  the  fireside 
during  the  winter  evenings?  Certainly  it  is 
not  much  to  look  at;  it  would  gain  a  poor 
reception  in  the  laboratories  that  are  con- 
stantly perfecting  their  equipment.  It  is 
peasant's  work,  a  clumsy  combination  of 
common  objects.  I  agree;  but  let  us  re- 
member that,  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  the 
poor  and  simple  are  by  no  means  inferior 
to  the  most  magnificent.  My  arrangement 
of  three  bamboo  canes  has  given  me  delight- 
103 


More  Beetles 

ful  moments;  it  has  provided  me  with  some 
fascinating  glimpses  which  I  will  try  to  set 
forth. 

In  March,  at  the  time  of  the  great  nest- 
building  excavations,  I  dig  up  a  couple  in 
the  fields.  I  install  them  in  my  apparatus. 
In  case  provisions  should  be  needed  as  a  re- 
storative during  the  laborious  sinking  of  the 
shaft,  I  place  a  few  Sheep-droppings  under 
the  glass  bell,  near  the  mouth  of  the  tube. 
The  trick  of  the  empty  entrance-hall,  calcu- 
lated to  bring  the  prisoners  into  immediate 
touch  with  the  workable  column  of  earth, 
succeeds  to  perfection.  Soon  after  their  in- 
stallation, the  captives  have  recovered  from 
their  excitement  and  are  diligently  at  work. 

They  were  taken  from  their  home  in  the 
full  ardour  of  excavation  and  they  continue 
in  my  garden  the  task  which  I  interrupted. 
It  is  true  that  I  changed  the  site  of  their 
workshop  as  quickly  as  I  could  return  from 
their  place  of  origin,  which  was  not  far  away. 
Their  zeal  has  not  had  time  to  grow  cold. 
They  were  digging  just  before  removal  and 
they  continue  to  dig.  Time  is  pressing;  the 
pair  will  not  willingly  down  tools,  even  after 
an  upheaval  which  one  would  think  must 
have  demoralized  them. 
104 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

As  I  anticipated,  the  digging  assumes  an 
eccentric  direction,  producing  in  the  sandy 
wall  a  few  gaps  in  which  the  glass  is  laid 
bare.  These  peep-holes  are  none  too  satis- 
factory as  regards  my  plans;  while  some  of 
them  permit  of  clear  observation,  the  greater 
number  are  obscured  by  an  earthy  veil.  Be- 
sides, they  are  not  permanent.  New  ones 
open  daily,  while  others  close.  These  con- 
tinual variations  are  due  to  the  rubbish 
which,  laboriously  hoisted  outside,  rubs 
against  the  wall,  plastering  or  denuding  this 
point  or  that.  I  take  advantage  of  these 
fortuitous  openings  to  examine  as  best  I  may, 
when  the  light  falls  at  a  favourable  angle, 
the  interesting  things  happening  inside  the 
tube. 

I  see  over  and  over  again,  at  my  leisure, 
as  often  as  I  please  and  over  a  protracted 
period,  what  the  exhausting  inspection  of  the 
natural  burrows  showed  me  in  rare  and 
fleeting  glimpses.  The  mother  is  always 
ahead,  in  the  post  of  honour,  at  the  working- 
face.  Alone  she  toils  and  moils,  with  her 
clypeus;  alone  she  scrapes  and  digs,  with  the 
harrow  of  her  toothed  arms:  her  mate  never 
relieves  her.  The  father  is  always  in  the 
rear,  very  busy  too,  but  on  another  job.  His 
105 


More  Beetles 

task  it  is  to  carry  the  loosened  soil  outside 
and  to  clear  up  as  the  pioneer  goes  deeper 
and  deeper. 

This  labour  of  his  is  no  slight  affair,  as 
we  may  judge  from  the  mound  which  he 
throws  up  when  plying  his  trade  in  the  mead- 
ows. It  is  a  big  heap  of  earthen  plugs, 
of  cylinders  mostly  measuring  an  inch  in 
length.  You  need  only  examine  the  pieces 
to  see  that  the  navvy  handles  blocks  of  Cy- 
clopean dimensions.  He  does  not  carry  off 
the  excavated  soil  fragment  by  fragment; 
he  ejects  it  in  huge  agglomerations. 

What  should  we  think  of  a  miner  who 
was  obliged  to  hoist  to  the  surface,  to  a 
height  of  some  hundreds  of  feet,  an  over- 
poweringly  heavy  hod  of  coal  up  a  narrow, 
perpendicular  shaft  which  could  be  climbed 
only  by  the  use  of  his  knees  and  elbows? 
The  Minotaur  father's  ordinary  task  is  the 
equivalent  of  this  feat  of  strength.  He 
performs  it  with  great  dexterity.  How 
does  he  manage  to  do  it?  Our  bamboo  tri- 
pod will  tell  us. 

From  time  to  time,  ,the  denuded  points  of 

the  tube  afford  me  a  glimpse  of  his  doings. 

He  is  stationed  at  the  digger's  heels,  raking 

the  loosened  soil  towards  him  by  the  armful. 

1 06 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

He  kneads  it,  as  its  moisture  enables  him  to 
do,  he  works  it  up  into  a  plug  which  he 
thrusts  back  into  the  shaft.  Then  the  plug 
begins  to  move.  The  load  precedes  him; 
and  he  pushes  it  from  behind  with  his  three- 
pronged  fork.  The  work  of  transport 
would  be  a  magnificent  sight  did  the  acci- 
dental peep-holes  in  the  gallery  lend  them- 
selves better  to  our  curiosity.  Unfor- 
tunately, they  are  few  and  small  and  none 
too  clear. 

Let  us  try  to  devise  something  better. 
In  a  dimly-lit  corner  of  my  study  I  hang 
perpendicularly  a  glass  tube  of  smaller  cal- 
ibre than  the  first.  I  leave  it  as  it  is,  un- 
provided with  an  opaque  sheath.  At  the 
bottom  is  a  nine-inch  column  of  earth.  All 
the  rest  is  empty  and  may  be  easily  observed, 
if  the  Minotaurs  consent  to  work  under  such 
disadvantageous  conditions.  Provided  that 
the  experiment  be  not  unduly  prolonged, 
they  do  consent  and  very  readily,  so  im- 
perious is  the  need  of  a  burrow  as  laying- 
time  draws  nigh. 

I  extract  from  the  soil  a  couple  engaged 

in  excavating  their  natural  shaft  and  place 

them  in  the  glass  tube.     Next  morning  I  find 

them  continuing   their   interrupted  business 

107 


More  Beetles 

in  broad  daylight.  Seated  a  little  way  off, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  corner  in  which  the  ap- 
paratus hangs,  I  watch  the  operation, 
amazed  by  what  I  see.  The  mother  digs. 
The  father,  at  some  distance,  waits  until  the 
heap  of  rubbish  is  beginning  to  hamper  the 
worker's  movements.  Then  he  approaches. 
By  small  armfuls  he  draws  towards  him  and 
slips  beneath  his  abdomen  the  shifted  earth, 
which,  being  plastic,  forms  into  a  ball  under 
the  pressure  of  the  hind-legs. 

The  Beetle  now  turns  about  beneath  the 
load.  With  the  trident  driven  into  the 
bundle,  as  a  pitchfork  is  driven  into  a  truss 
of  hay,  before  tossing  it  into  the  loft,  the 
fore-legs,  with  their  wide,  toothed  shanks, 
gripping  the  load  and  preventing  it  from 
crumbling,  he  pushes  with  all  his  might. 
And  cheerily  1  The  thing  moves  and  as- 
cends, very  slowly,  it  is  true,  but  still  it  as- 
cends !  How  is  it  done,  seeing  that  the  too 
smooth  surface  of  the  glass  acts  as  an  ab- 
solute check  to  the  upward  movement? 

The  insurmountable  difficulty  has  been 
provided  for.  I  selected  a  clay  soil  likely  to 
leave  a  trace  of  its  passage.  With  the  cart 
before  the  horse,  the  load  itself  sands  the 
road  and  makes  it  practicable;  in  rubbing 
1 08 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

past  every  portion  of  the  wall,  it  leaves 
particles  of  earth  which  constitute  so  many 
points  of  purchase.  Therefore,  as  he 
pushes  his  burden  upwards,  the  Beetle  finds 
behind  it  a  roughened  surface  which  affords 
him  a  footing  as  he  climbs. 

This,  after  all,  is  all  he  needs,  though  it 
involves  occasional  slips  and  efforts  to  re- 
tain his  balance,  which  are  unknown  in  the 
natural  shaft.  When  he  comes  to  a  certain 
distance  from  the  opening,  he  leaves  his 
clod,  which,  shaped  by  the  tube,  remains  in 
its  place,  motionless.  He  returns  to  the 
bottom,  not  by  allowing  himself  to  fall  sud- 
denly, but  gradually  and  carefully,  by  means 
of  the  footholds  by  which  he  made  his  way 
up.  A  second  pellet  is  hoisted  up  and 
welded  to  the  first.  A  third  follows.  At 
length,  with  a  last  effort,  he  pushes  out  the 
whole  thing  in  a  single  plug. 

This  fractional  division  is  a  judicious 
method.  Because  of  the  enormous  amount 
of  friction  in  the  narrow  and  uneven  natural 
shaft,  the  Beetle  would  never  succeed  in 
hoisting  the  great  cylinders  of  his  mound  in 
one  lump ;  he  carries  them  up  in  loads  which 
are  not  beyond  his  powers  and  which  are 
afterwards  joined  and  welded  together. 
109 


More  Beetles 

I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  this  work 
of  assembling  the  component  parts  is  per- 
formed in  the  slightly  sloping  vestibule  which 
usually  precedes  the  perpendicular  shaft. 
Here  no  doubt  the  successive  clods  are  com- 
pressed into  one  very  heavy  cylinder,  which 
is  yet  easily  moved  along  an  almost  hori- 
zontal road.  Then  the  Minotaur,  with  a 
last  thrust  of  his  trident,  pushes  out  the  lump, 
which  joins  the  others  on  the  sides  of  the 
mound.  They  are  like  so  many  blocks  of 
hewn  stone  forbidding  access  to  the  home. 
The  rubbish  thus  suitably  moulded  provides 
a  Cyclopean  system  of  fortification. 

In  the  glass  tube,  the  climbing  is  such 
difficult  work  that  the  insect  is  soon  dis- 
couraged. The  frail  footholds  left  by  the 
load  crumble  and  fall  off,  swept  away  by  the 
tarsi  vainly  seeking  a  support;  and  the  tube 
again  becomes  smooth  over  wide  extents  of 
its  surface.  The  climber  ends  by  giving  up 
struggling  against  the  impossible;  he  aban- 
dons his  bundle  and  drops  to  the  bottom. 
The  works  cease  henceforth;  the  couple 
have  recognized  the  treachery  of  their 
strange  dwelling.  Both  of  them  try  to  get 
away.  Their  uneasiness  is  betrayed  by  con- 
tinual attempts  to  escape.  I  set  them  free. 

1 10 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

They  have  told  me  all  that  they  were  able 
to  tell  me  in  conditions  so  favourable  to 
me  and  so  bad  for  themselves. 

To  return  to  the  large  apparatus,  where 
the  work  is  proceeding  correctly.  The  bor- 
ing, begun  in  March,  finishes  by  the  middle 
of  April.  From  this  time  onward,  my  daily 
visits  no  longer  show  me  on  the  top  of  the 
mound  a  plug  of  fresh  earth,  marking  a  re- 
cent ejection  of  rubbish. 

It  must  therefore  take  two  or  three  weeks 
at  least  to  excavate  the  dwelling.  My  ob- 
servations in  the  open  even  lead  me  to  think 
that  a  month  or  longer  is  not  excessive.  My 
two  captives,  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  their 
earlier  labours  and  pressed  for  time  by  the 
lateness  of  the  season,  cut  short  this  work, 
which  for  that  matter  they  were  unable  to 
continue  when  the  cork  stopper  appeared  at 
the  bottom  of  the  tube  as  an  insuperable  ob- 
stacle. The  others,  working  in  freedom, 
have  an  unlimited  depth  of  sand  at  their  dis- 
posal. They  have  plenty  of  leisure,  if  they 
start  work  in  good  time.  Even  before  the 
end  of  February  we  see  plenty  of  mounds. 
Later,  these  will  mark  the  sites  of  shafts 
four  or  five  feet  deep.  Such  pits  as  these 
require  a  full  month's  labour,  if  not  more. 


More  Beetles 

Now  what  do  the  two  well-sinkers  eat, 
during  this  long  period,  to  keep  up  their 
strength?  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  we 
are  told  by  the  two  guests  in  my  apparatus. 
Neither  of  them  appears  looking  for  food 
on  the  surface  of  the  pie-dish.  The  mother 
does  not  leave  the  bottom  for  a  moment;  the 
father  alone  goes  up  and  down.  When  he 
comes  up,  it  is  always  with  a  load  of  rubbish. 
I  am  warned  of  his  arrival  by  the  hillock 
which  shakes  and  partly  crumbles  under  the 
impetus  of  the  navvy  and  his  load;  but  the 
Beetle  himself  does  not  appear,  for  the 
mouth  of  the  erupting  cone  remains  closed 
by  the  plug  ejected.  Everything  happens 
in  secret,  sheltered  from  the  indiscretion  of 
the  light.  In  the  same  way,  in  the  fields, 
any  burrow  in  process  of  construction  re- 
mains closed  until  it  is  quite  finished. 

This,  it  is  true,  does  not  prove  the  abso- 
lute absence  of  provisions,  for  the  father 
might  go  out  at  night,  collect  a  few  pellets 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  shaft,  push  them 
in,  go  indoors  again  and  shut  up  the  house. 
In  this  way  the  couple  would  have  enough 
bread  in  the  larder  to  last  them  for  a  few 
days.  This  explanation  must  be  abandoned, 

1 12 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

as  we  are  definitely  taught  by  what  happens 
in  my  rearing-appliance. 

Foreseeing  a  need  of  food,  I  had  supplied 
the  dish  with  a  few  droppings.  When  the 
excavation-works  were  finished,  I  found  these 
pellets  untouched  and  undiminished  in  num- 
ber. The  father,  supposing  him  to  go 
strolling  about  at  night,  could  not  fail  to 
see  them.  He  had  taken  no  notice  of  them. 

The  peasants  in  my  neighbourhood,  rude 
tillers  of  the  soil,  have  four  meals  a  day. 
At  early  dawn,  on  rising,  a  hunk  of  bread 
and  a  few  dried  figs,  for  a  snack,  as  they  put 
it.  In  the  fields,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  wife 
brings  the  soup  and  its  complement  of  ancho- 
vies and  olives,  which  give  a  man  an  honest 
thirst.  On  the  stroke  of  two,  in  the  shade 
of  a  hedge,  lunch  is  taken  from  the  wallet, 
consisting  of  almonds  and  bread  and  cheese. 
This  is  followed  by  a  sleep  in  the  hottest 
part  of  the  day.  When  night  falls,  they  go 
home,  where  the  housewife  has  made  ready 
a  salad  of  lettuces  and  a  dish  of  fried  pota- 
toes seasoned  with  onions.  All  told,  a  great 
deal  of  eating  to  a  moderate  amount  of 
work. 

Ah,  how  greatly  superior  is  the  Minotaur ! 
"3 


More  Beetles 

For  a  month  and  longer,  without  taking  any 
food,  he  works  like  a  madman  and  is  always 
fit  and  strong.  If  I  told  my  neighbours,  the 
chawbacons,  that  in  a  certain  world  the  la- 
bourer does  a  month's  hard  work  without  a 
bite  of  food,  they  would  reply  with  an  in- 
credulous guffaw.  If  I  say  as  much  to  the 
chewers  of  ideas,  perhaps  I  shall  scandalize 
them. 

No  matter:  let  me  repeat  what  the  Mino- 
taur told  me.  The  chemical  energy  derived 
from  nourishment  is  not  the  only  origin  of 
animal  activity.  As  a  source  of  life  there 
is  something  better  than  digested  food. 
What?  How  can  I  tell?  Apparently  the 
effluvia,  known  or  unknown,  emanating  from 
the  sun  and  transformed  by  the  organism 
into  a  mechanical  equivalent.  So  we  were 
told  before  by  the  Scorpion  and  the  Spider;1 
So  we  are  told  now  by  the  Minotaur,  who  is 
more  convincing  with  his  arduous  calling. 
He  does  not  eat,  yet  he  is  a  frantic  worker. 

The  insect  world  is  fruitful  in  surprises. 
The  three-pronged  Dung-beetle,  an  accom- 
plished faster  and  nevertheless  a  remarkable 
labourer,  sets  us  a  magnificent  problem.  Is 

1Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Spider:  thap.  v.     The  essays  on 
the    Scorpion    will    appear    in    the    next,    the    concluding 
volume   of   the   series. — Translator's   Note. 
"4 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

it  not  possible  that  on  distant  planets, 
goverened  by  another  sun,  green,  blue,  yel- 
low or  red,  life  might  be  exempt  from  the 
ignominy  of  the  stomach,  that  lamentable 
source  of  atrocities,  and  maintain  its  activ- 
ities merely  with  the  aid  of  the  radiations 
flooding  that  corner  of  the  universe?  Shall 
we  ever  know?  I  sincerely  hope  so,  our 
earth  being  but  a  stage  towards  a  better 
world,  in  which  true  happiness  might  well 
lie  in  fathoming  more  and  more  deeply  the 
unfathomable  secret  of  things. 

Let  us  leave  these  nebulous  heights  and 
return  to  the  workaday  question  of  the  Mino- 
taur's affairs.  The  burrow  is  ready;  it  is 
time  to  establish  the  family.  I  am  apprised 
of  this  by  seeing  the  father  for  the  first  time 
venture  abroad  in  the  daylight.  He  is  very 
busy  exploring  the  expanse  of  the  dish. 
What  is  he  looking  for?  He  seems  to  be 
seeking  provisions  for  the  coming  brood. 
This  is  the  moment  to  interfere. 

To  facilitate  observation,  I  make  a  clean 
sweep.  I  clear  the  site  of  its  mound,  under 
which  lie  buried  the  victuals  which  I  deemed 
necessary  at  the  outset,  but  which  have  re- 
mained untouched.  These  old  pellets,  soiled 
with  earth,  are  discarded  and  replaced  by 


More  Beetles 

others,  a  dozen  in  number,  distributed 
around  the  mouth  of  the  shaft.  There  are, 
as  I  say,  precisely  twelve,  arranged  in  groups 
of  three,  which  will  make  it  easier  and 
quicker  for  me  to  count  them  daily  through 
the  haze  covering  the  bell.  A  moderate  wa- 
tering, effected  from  time  to  time  on  the  bor- 
der of  soil  which  surrounds  the  bell  and 
keeps  it  in  position,  produces  a  humid  atmo- 
sphere inside  the  apparatus  similar  to  that 
of  the  depths  favoured  by  the  Minotaur. 
This  element  of  success  should  not  be 
omitted.  Lastly,  I  keep  a  current  account 
in  which  I  enter  day  by  day  the  pieces  stored 
away.  There  were  twelve  at  the  beginning. 
If  these  are  exhausted,  we  shall  replace  them 
as  often  as  may  be  necessary. 

I  have  not  to  wait  long  for  the  results  of 
my  preparations.  That  same  evening, 
watching  from  a  distance,  I  catch  sight  of  the 
father  leaving  his  home.  He  makes  for  the 
pellets,  chooses  one  that  suits  him  and,  with 
little  taps  of  his  head,  rolls  it  as  he  might 
roll  a  barVel.  I  steal  up  softly  to  observe 
the  action.  Forthwith  the  Beetle,  timid  to 
excess,  abandons  his  morsel  and  dives  down 
the  shaft.  The  distrustful  fellow  has  seen 
me;  he  has  perceived  some  enormous  and 
116 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

suspicious-looking  thing  moving  near  at  hand. 
This  is  more  than  enough  to  alarm  him  and 
make  him  postpone  his  harvesting.  He 
will  not  reappear  until  perfect  quiet  is 
restored. 

I  now  know :  he  who  wishes  to  watch  the 
gathering  of  the  provisions  must  display  the 
utmost  patience  and  discretion.  I  accept 
the  facts :  I  will  be  discreet  and  patient.  On 
the  following  days,  at  different  hours,  I  try 
again,  silently  and  slyly,  until  success  re- 
wards me  for  my  assiduous  vigil. 

Again  and  again  I  see  the  Minotaur  go 
his  harvesting  rounds.  It  is  always  the  male 
and  the  male  alone  that  comes  out  and  goes 
in  quest  of  supplies;  the  mother  never,  never 
on  any  account,  shows  herself,  being  ab- 
sorbed in  other  occupations  at  the  bottom  of 
the  burrow.  The  provisions  are  transported 
sparingly.  Down  below,  it  seems,  the  culi- 
nary preparations  are  minute  and  deliberate ; 
the  housewife  must  be  given  time  to  work 
up  the  morsels  lowered  to  her  before  we 
bring  others  which  would  encumber  the 
workshop  and  hinder  the  manipulation.  In 
ten  days,  beginning  with  the  I3th  of  April, 
the  date  on  which  the  male  leaves  home  for 
the  first  time,  I  count  twenty-three  pellets 
117 


More  Beetles 

stored  away,  say  an  average  of  a  little  over 
two  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  In  all,  ten 
days'  harvesting  and  two  dozen  morsels  to 
manufacture  the  sausage  which  will  form  the 
ration  of  one  grub. 

Let  us  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
couple's  behaviour  in  private.  In  this  con- 
nection I  can  have  recourse  to  two  methods, 
which,  if  employed  in  alternation  and  with 
perseverance,  may  give  me  the  much-desired 
spectacle  in  a  fragmentary  form.  In  the 
first  place,  there  is  a  large  tripod.  The 
narrow  column  of  earth  affords,  as  we  know, 
incidental  peep-holes,  situated  at  different 
heights.  I  avail  myself  of  these  to  take  a 
glance  at  what  happens  inside.  In  the  sec- 
ond place,  a  perpendicular,  uncovered  tube, 
the  same  which  I  used  when  investigating 
the  climbing,  receives  a  couple  removed  from 
the  ground  a  few  hours  before,  while  actively 
engaged  on  preparing  the  foodstuffs. 

I  quite  expect  that  my  device  will  fail  to 
have  any  lasting  effect.  Soon  demoralized 
by  the  peculiarity  of  their  new  residence, 
the  two  insects  will  refuse  to  work,  will  be- 
come restless  and  wish  to  get  away.  No 
matter:  before  their  nest-building  ardour 
dies  down,  they  may  be  able  to  supply  me 
118 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

with  valuable  details.  On  combining  the 
facts  collected  by  means  of  the  two  methods, 
I  obtain  the  following  data. 

The  father  goes  out  and  selects  a  pellet 
whose  length  is  greater  than  the  diameter 
of  the  pit.  He  conveys  it  to  the  mouth, 
either  backwards,  by  dragging  it  with  his 
fore-feet,  or  straight  ahead,  by  rolling  it 
with  little  thrusts  of  his  clypeus.  He  reaches 
the  edge  of  the  hole.  Will  he  fling  the  lump 
down  the  precipice  with  one  last  push? 
Not  at  all:  he  has  plans  that  are  incompat- 
ible with  a  violent  fall. 

He  enters,  clasping  the  pellet  with  his  legs 
and  taking  care  to  insert  it  by  one  end.  On 
reaching  a  certain  distance  from  the  bottom, 
he  has  only  to  slant  the  piece  slightly  to 
make  it  find  a  support  at  its  two  ends  against 
the  walls  of  the  shaft:  this  because  of  the 
greater  length  of  its  main  axis.  He  thus 
obtains  a  sort  of  temporary  flooring  able  to 
bear  the  load  of  two  or  three  pellets.  The 
whole  forms  the  workshop  in  which  the 
father  will  perform  his  task  without  dis- 
turbing the  mother,  who  is  herself  engaged 
below.  It  is  the  mill  whence  will  be  lowered 
the  meal  for  making  the  cakes. 

The  miller  is  well-equipped  for  his  work. 
119 


More  Beetles 

Look  at  his  trident.  On  the  solid  founda- 
tion of  the  corselet  stand  three  sharp  spears, 
the  two  outer  ones  long,  the  middle  one 
short,  all  three  pointing  forwards.  What 
purpose  does  this  weapon  serve?  At  first 
sight,  one  would  take  it  for  a  mere  masculine 
decoration,  the  corporation  of  Dung-beetles 
boasting  many  such,  of  various  forms. 
Well,  it  is  something  more  than  an  orna- 
ment: the  Minotaur  turns  his  gaud  into  a 
tool. 

The  three  points  of  unequal  length  de- 
scribe a  concave  arc,  wide  enough  to  admit 
a  spherical  dropping.  Standing  on  his  in- 
complete and  quaking  floor,  which  demands 
the  employment  of  his  four  hind-legs, 
propped  against  the  walls  of  the  shaft,  how 
will  the  Beetle  manage  to  keep  the  slippery 
pellet  in  position  and  break  it  up?  Let  us 
watch  him  at  work. 

Stooping  a  little,  he  drives  his  fork  into 
the  piece,  which  is  thenceforth  rendered  sta- 
tionary, for  it  is  held  in  the  crescent-shaped 
jaws  of  the  implement.  The  fore-legs  are 
free ;  with  their  toothed  shanks  they  can  saw 
the  morsel,  shred  it  and  reduce  it  to  frag- 
ments which  gradually  fall  through  the  gaps 
in  the  flooring  and  reach  the  mother  below. 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

The  substance  which  the  miller  shoots 
down  is  not  a  flour  passed  through  the  bolt- 
ing-sieve, but  rather  a  coarse  meal,  a  mix- 
ture of  pulverized  remnants  and  of  pieces 
hardly  ground  at  all.  Incomplete  though 
it  be,  this  preliminary  grinding  will  be  of  the 
greatest  assistance  to  the  mother  in  her  te- 
dious job  of  bread-making:  it  will  shorten 
the  work  and  allow  the  best  and  the  second 
best  to  be  separated  forthwith.  When 
everything  on  the  upper  story,  including  the 
floor  itself,  is  ground  to  powder,  the  horned 
miller  returns  to  the  open  air,  gathers  a  fresh 
harvest  and  starts  his  work  of  crumbling 
anew  entirely  at  his  leisure. 

Nor  is  the  baker  inactive  in  her  kitchen. 
She  collects  the  remnants  pouring  down 
around  her,  subdivides  them  yet  further,  re- 
fines them  and  sorts  them.  This,  the  ten- 
derer part,  for  the  central  crumb;  that, 
tougher,  for  the  crust  of  the  loaf.  Turning 
this  way  and  that,  she  pats  the  material  with 
the  battledor'e  of  her  flat  arms;  she  arranges 
it  in  layers,  which  presently  she  compresses 
by  stamping  on  them  where  they  lie,  much 
after  the  manner  of  a  vintager  treading  his 
grapes.  Rendered  firm  and  compact,  the 
mass  will  keep  better.  After  some  ten  days 


More  Beetles 

of  this  united  labour,  the  couple  at  last  ob- 
tain the  long,  cylindrical  loaf.  The  father 
has  done  the  grinding,  the  mother  the 
kneading. 

On  the  24th  of  April,  everything  being 
now  in  order,  the  male  leaves  the  tube  of 
my  apparatus.  He  roams  about  in  the  bell- 
glass,  heedless  of  my  presence,  he  who  was 
at  first  so  timid  and  apt  to  dive  down  the 
shaft  at  the  first  sight  of  me.  He  is  indif- 
ferent to  food.  A  few  pellets  remain  on  the 
surface.  He  comes  upon  them  at  every  mo- 
ment; he  disdainfully  passes  them  by.  He 
has  but  one  wish,  to  get  away  as  fast  as  he 
can.  This  is  shown  by  his  restless  march- 
ing and  countermarching,  by  his  continual 
attempts  to  scale  the  glass  wall.  He  tumbles 
over,  recovers  his  footing  and  begins  all  over 
again  indefinitely,  giving  not  a  thought  to 
the  burrow,  which  he  will  never  re-enter. 

I  let  the  desperate  Beetle  exhaust  himself 
for  twenty-four  hours  in  vain  attempts  at 
escape.  Let  us  come  to  his  assistance  now 
and  restore  his  freedom.  Or  rather  no, 
for  this  would  mean  that  We  should  lose 
sight  of  him  and  remain  ignorant  of  the  ob- 
ject of  his  perturbation.  I  have  a  very 
large  unoccupied  rearing-cage.  I  house  the 


First  Attempts  at  Observation 

Minotaur  in  this  cage,  where  he  will  have 
plenty  of  flying-room,  choice  victuals  and  sun- 
light. Next  morning,  in  spite  of  all  these 
luxuries,  I  find  him  lying  on  his  back,  with 
his  legs  stiff  and  stark.  He  is  dead.  The 
gallant  fellow,  having  fulfilled  his  duties  as 
the  father  of  a  family,  felt  his  strength  fail- 
ing him;  and  this  was  the  cause  of  his  rest- 
lessness. He  was  anxious  to  go  and  die  by 
himself,  far  away,  so  as  not  to  defile  the 
home  with  a  corpse  and  trouble  the  widow 
in  her  subsequent  operations.  I  admire  this 
stoical  resignation  on  the  insect's  part. 

If  it  were  an  isolated,  casual  instance,  re- 
sulting perhaps  from  a  defective  installation, 
there  would  be  no  reason  to  dwell  upon  the 
Beetle  who  met  with  his  death  in  my  appara- 
tus. But  here  is  something  that  complicates 
matters.  In  the  open  fields,  when  May  is 
at  hand,  I  often  happen  upon  Minotaurs 
shrivelling  in  the  sun;  and  these  corpses  are 
those  of  males,  always  males,  with  very  few 
exceptions. 

Another  and  a  very  significant  detail  is 
supplied  by  a  cage  in  which  I  several  times 
tried  to  rear  the  insect.  As  the  bed  of  soil, 
some  eighteen  inches  thick,  was  not  deep 
enough,  the  prisoners  absolutely  refused  to 
123 


.  More  Beetles 

build  their  nests  in  it.  Apart  from  this,  the 
other,  usual  operations  were  pursued  accord- 
ing to  rule.  Well,  from  the  end  of  April 
onwards,  the  males  ascend  to  the  surface,  one 
at  a  time.  For  a  couple  of  days  they  wan- 
der about  the  trellis-work,  anxious  to  get 
away.  At  last  they  tumble  off,  lie  on  their 
backs  and  slowly  give  up  the  ghost.  Age 
has  killed  them. 

In  the  first  week  of  June,  I  dig  up  the  soil 
in  the  cage  from  top  to  bottom.  Of  the  fif- 
teen males  who  were  there  at  the  beginning, 
hardly  one  remains.  All  have  died;  all  the 
females  survive.  The  harsh  law  is  there- 
fore inevitable.  After  helping  with  his  hod 
in  the  lengthy  task  of  sinking  the  shaft,  after 
amassing,  suitable  provisions  and  grinding 
the  meal,  the  industrious  trident-bearer  goes 
away  to  die  far  from  home. 


124 


CHAPTER    VI 

MINOTAURUS   TYPHQEUS  :    FURTHER 
OBSERVATIONS 

THE  bamboo  tripod,  so  alien  in  its  ar- 
rangement to  the  Minotaur's  habits, 
might  well  have  been  the  cause,  in  part,  of 
the  father's  premature  decease.  In  the  glass 
tube,  only  one  cylindrical  cake  alone  was  pre- 
pared. Evidently  this  was  not  enough. 
Two  at  least  are  needed  to  maintain  the 
species  in  the  actual  state;  more  would  be 
needed,  as  many  as  possible,  for  increased 
prosperity.  But  in  my  apparatus  there  is 
no  room,  unless  the  food-cylinders  are  super- 
imposed and  piled  in  columns,  a  mistake 
which  the  mother  would  never  commit. 

Superimposed  stories  would  afterwards 
make  the  emergence  of  the  offspring  diffi- 
cult. In  their  eagerness  to  reach  the  light, 
the  oldest,  grown  sufficiently  mature  and  oc- 
cupying the  foot  of  the  column,  would  topple 
over  and  lacerate  the  late  arrivals,  who  are 
125 


More  Beetles 

not  yet  ready  to  occupy  the  top.  For  a  quiet, 
exodus  it  is  important  that  the  shaft  should 
be  free  from  one  end  to  the  other.  The 
several  cavities  must  therefore  be  grouped 
side  by  side  and  communicate,  each  by  a 
lateral  passage,  with  the  common  ascension- 
shaft. 

Long  ago,  the  Bison  Ortis  1  showed  us  his 
preserves,  the  rations  of  so  many  grubs, 
arranged  near  the  bottom  of  the  burrow.  A 
short  passage  connected  each  of  the  chambers 
with  the  vertical  shaft.  The  cells  were  all 
grouped  on  one  landing.  Probably  the 
Minotaur  adopts  a  similar  system. 

Indeed,  when  I  go  digging  in  the  fields,  a 
little  late  in  the  season,  when  the  father  is 
already  dead,  my  trowel  unearths  a  second 
chamber,  with  an  egg  and  provisions,  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  chamber,  which  it- 
self contains  an  egg  and  is  duly  victualled. 
Another  excavation  gives  me  two  eccentric 
cells.  The  arrangement  is  the  same  in  each 
case,  in  the  blind  alley  of  the  burrow  and  in 
its  annexes:  at  the  base,  in  the  sand,  is  an 
egg;  above  it  are  the  victuals,  packed  into 
a  column. 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others:  chap.  xvi. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

126 


Further  Observations 

It  may  be  asssumed  that,  if  the  difficulty 
of  wielding  the  spade  at  the  bottom  of  a  fun- 
nel had  not  exceeded  my  assistant's  patience 
and  flexibility,  similar  excavations,  repeated 
throughout  the  proper  season,  would  have 
added  to  the  number  of  cells  served  by  the 
same  shaft.  How  many  are  there  altogether? 
Four  or  five  or  six?  I  do  not  know  exactly. 
A  moderate  number,  in  any  case.  And  this 
is  bound  to  be  so.  The  hoarders  of  food 
for  the  family  are  not  excessively  fruitful. 
They  have  no  time  to  bequeath  supplies  to  a 
numerous  brood. 

The  rearing-apparatus  in  the  bamboo  tri- 
pod has  a  surprise  in  store  for  me.  I  in- 
spect it  after  the  father's  departure  and  de- 
cease. There  is  certainly  a  column  of  pro- 
visions similar  to  that  which  I  dig  up  in  the 
fields;  but  these  provisions  are  not  accom- 
panied by  an  egg,  either  at  the  base  or  else- 
where. The  table  is  served  and  the  con- 
sumer is  not  present.  Can  it  be  that  the 
mother  is  reluctant  to  populate  the  incon- 
venient abode  which  I  force  upon  her?  Ap- 
parently not,  for  she  would  not  first  have 
kneaded  the  long  loaf,  if  that  loaf  was  to 
have  proved  useless.  When  desisting  from 
127 


More  Beetles 

laying  because  of  a  defective  home,  she 
would  have  abstained  from  baking  a  cake 
that  would  serve  no  purpose. 

Besides,  the  same  fact  recurs  under  nor- 
mal conditions.  In  my  dozen  excavations 
in  the  fields — that  their  number  was  no 
greater  must  be  attributed  to  the  difficulty  of 
the  operation — the  egg  was  lacking  in  three 
instances.  The  larder  was  deserted.  No 
laying  had  taken  place;  and  the  provisions 
were  there,  manipulated  in  the  usual  fash- 
ion. 

What  I  suspect  is  that  the  mother,  not 
feeling  in  her  ovaries  germs  ripened  to  the 
requisite  degree,  none  the  less  labours  to 
provide  a  store  of  food  with  her  collabora- 
tor. She  knows  that  the  horned  dandy,  the 
enthusiastic  helper,  will  disappear  ere  long, 
worn  out  by  toil  and  time.  She  makes  the 
most  of  his  zeal  and  his  energies  before  being 
deprived  of  them.  Thus  food  is  prepared 
in  the  cellar  to  be  used  afterwards  by  the 
mother,  now  a  widow.  To  these  provisions 
which  are  all  the  better  in  that  they  have  been 
improved  by  fermentation,  the  mother  will 
return,  moving  them  and  piling  them  up  in  a 
lateral  cell,  but  this  time  with  an  egg  under 
the  heap.  Thus  provided  for  and  enabled 
128 


Further  Observations 

to  carry  on  alone,  the  widow  that  is  to  be 
will  do  the  rest.  The  father  may  now  die; 
the  household  will  not  suffer  unduly. 

The  father's  premature  end  may  well  be 
caused  by  the  melancholy  due  to  inaction. 
He  is  a  hard  worker  easily  upset  by  the  bore- 
dom of  inactivity.  In  my  apparatus,  he 
pines  away,  after  the  first  cake  has  been 
made,  because  the  workshop  is  brought  to  a 
compulsory  standstill,  the  rest  of  the  glass 
having  no  accommodation  for  superimposed 
cells,  which  later  would  hinder  the  emergence 
of  the  family.  For  lack  of  space,  the 
mother  ceases  to  lay  eggs;  and  the  father, 
having  nothing  more  to  do,  departs  to  die 
outside.  Idleness  has  killed  him. 

In  the  open,  the  space  underground  is  in- 
definite; it  allows  such  a  group  of  cells  as  is 
needed  by  the  mother's  fruitfulness  to  be 
formed  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft;  but  an- 
other difficulty  arises,  and  a  most  serious  one. 
When  I  myself  am  the  purveyor,  there  is  no 
fear  of  famine.  I  enquire  daily  into  the 
state  of  the  stores  and  I  renew  as  required 
the  available  provisions  scattered  over  the 
surface.  My  prisoners,  without  being  over- 
loaded, are  always  in  the  midst  of  plenty. 
It  is  a  very  different  matter  in  the  fields. 
129 


More  Beetles 

The  Sheep  is  not  so  lavish  that  she  always 
drops  at  one  spot  the  number  of  pellets 
needed  by  the  Minotaur,  two  hundred  and 
more,  as  my  subsequent  observations  will 
testify.  An  emission  of  three  or  four  dozen 
may  be  regarded  as  a  good  many.  The  ru- 
minant moves  on  and  continues  its  distribu- 
tion elsewhere. 

Now  the  pill-gatherer  is  not  of  a  roaming 
disposition.  I  cannot  picture  him  going  far 
in  quest  of  the  wherewithal  to  endow  his  off- 
spring. How  could  he  find  his  way  again, 
after  a  long  expedition,  and  come  back  home, 
pushing  with  his  feet  the  pellets  which  he 
had  picked  up  one  by  one?  That  flight  and 
scent  combined  may  enable  him  to  light  upon 
windfalls  at  a  great  distance  for  his  own  re- 
fection, I  am  quite  ready  to  admit :  the  sober 
eater  needs  but  little  food;  and,  besides,  the 
matter  is  not  urgent.  But,  when  nest-build- 
ing is  in  question,  the  need  is  felt  of  great 
numbers  of  pellets,  very  quickly  obtained. 
The  Beetle,  it  is  true,  has  taken  care  to  es- 
tablish himself  near  as  copious  a  heap  as 
possible.  At  night,  he  goes  the  rounds  out- 
side his  dwelling,  gathering  the  pellets  almost 
on  his  threshold;  he  will  even  continue  his 
search  at  a  distance  of  some  feet,  in  familiar 
130 


Further  Observations 

places,  where  he  cannot  go  astray.  But 
there  comes  a  time  when  nothing  is  left  in 
the  neighbourhood ;  everything  has  been  har- 
vested. 

The  hoarder,  who  cannot  bear  distant  ex- 
peditions, thereupon  perishes  of  inaction;  he 
quits  the  home  where  henceforth  there  is  no 
more  work  for  him.  Having  nothing  left 
to  do  for  want  of  materials,  the  roller,  the 
bruiser  of  pills  dies  out  of  doors,  in  the  open 
air.  This  is  my  explanation  of  the  males 
found  dead  on  the  surface  when  May  comes. 
They  are  the  disconsolate  victims  of  their 
passion  for  work.  They  abandon  life  the 
moment  life  becomes  useless. 

If  my  conjecture  is  well-founded,  it  must 
be  possible  for  me  to  prolong  the  existence 
of  these  pessimists  by  placing  gradually  at 
the  workers'  disposal  as  many  pellets  as  they 
can  wish  for.  It  occurs  to  me  to  load  the 
Minotaur  with  favours;  I  propose  to  create 
on  his  behalf  a  paradise  where  droppings 
abound,  where  the  sugar-plums  will  be  re- 
newed as  and  when  those  already  there  are 
lowered  into  the  cellar.  Moreover,  this  de- 
lightful land  will  have  a  sandy  soil,  kept 
moist  to  the  requisite  degree;  a  depth  equal 
to  that  of  the  usual  burrows;  and  lastly  am- 
131 


More  Beetles 

pie  space  to  allow  several  cabins  to  be 
grouped  at  the  bottom,  one  beside  the  other. 

My  calculations  result  in  the  structure 
which  I  will  now  describe.  With  strips  of 
boarding  a  good  finger's-breadth  thick,  which 
will  later  reduce  evaporation,  the  carpenter 
builds  me  a  square,  hollow  prism,  measuring 
some  56  inches  in  height.  Three  of  its 
sides  are  permanently  fastened  with  nails; 
the  fourth  consists  of  three  shutters  of  equal 
size  held  in  place  by  screws.  This  arrange- 
ment will  enable  me  to  inspect  at  will  the  top, 
the  bottom  or  the  middle  part  of  the  appara- 
tus without  shaking  the  contents.  The  in- 
ner side  of  the  prism  measures  nearly  4  in- 
ches each  way.  The  lower  end  is  closed; 
the  upper  end  is  free  and  has  a  ledge  on 
which  rests  a  wide,  projecting  tray,  repre- 
senting the  surroundings  of  the  natural  bur- 
row. The  tray  is  covered  by  a  wire-gauze 
dome.  The  hollow  column  is  filled  with 
moist  sandy  earth,  suitably  packed.  The 
tray  itself  receives  a  layer  of  the  earth,  a 
finger's-breadth  in  depth. 

There  is  one  indispensable  condition  to  be 
observed :  the  earthy  contents  of  the  appara- 
tus must  not  get  dry.  The  thickness  of  the 
planks  prevents  this  partly;  but  it  is  not 
132 


Further  Observations 

enough,  especially  during  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer. With  this  purpose  in  view,  the  bottom 
third  of  the  long  prism  stands  in  a  large 
flower-pot,  filled  with  earth,  which  I  keep 
damp  by  watering  it  in  moderation.  A 
slight  absorption  of  the  surrounding  mois- 
ture through  the  wood  will  prevent  the  con- 
tents from  becoming  parched.  The  same 
contrivance  ensures  the  steadiness  of  the 
apparatus,  which,  firmly  implanted  in  a  heavy 
base,  will  withstand  the  onslaughts  of  the 
wind,  if  need  be,  all  the  year  round. 

The  middle  third  is  wrapped  in  a  thick 
coat  of  rags  which  the  watering-can  moistens 
almost  daily.  Lastly,  the  top  third  is  bare; 
but  the  layer  of  earth  on  the  tray,  subjected 
by  me  to  pretty  frequent  artificial  rains, 
transmits  a  little  moisture  to  it.  By  means 
of  these  various  devices,  I  obtain  a  column 
of  earth,  neither  swamped  nor  parched,  of 
the  kind  which  the  Minotaur  requires  for 
his  nest  building. 

Had  I  lent  an  ear  to  my  ambitious  plans, 
I  should  have  had  a  dozen  of  these  appliances 
constructed,  so  many  questions  were  there  to 
be  solved;  but  it  is  a  troublesome  business, 
far  beyond  the  means  of  my  personal  ingenu- 
ity; and  impecuniosity,  that  terrible  evil  of 
133 


More  Beetles 

which  Panurge  complained,  curbs  my  desire 
for  apparatus.  I  allowed  myself  two  and 
no  more. 

When  they  were  stocked,  I  kept  them 
during  the  winter  in  a  small  green-house,  for 
fear  of  frost  in  a  mass  of  earth  of  no  great 
volume.  At  the  bottom  of  his  natural  gal- 
lery, the  Minotaur  need  not  dread  the  severe 
cold:  he  is  protected  by  a  wall  of  unlimited 
thickness.  In  the  narrow  quarters  of  my 
divisioning,  he  would  have  undergone  the 
sorest  trials. 

When  the  warm  weather  had  come,  I  set 
up  my  two  columns  in  the  open  air,  and  a 
few  steps  from  my  door.  Standing  side  by 
side,  they  form  a  sort  of  pylon,  of  a  strange 
order  of  architecture.  Not  a  member  of  the 
household  passes  them  without  a  glance. 
My  own  visits  are  assiduous,  especially  in  the 
evening  and  the  morning,  when  the  night 
work  begins  and  when  it  is  finished.  What 
happy  moments  I  have  spent,  on  the  lookout 
near  my  pylon,  watching  and  meditating! 

Here  are  the  facts:  about  the  middle  of 
December,  I  install  in  each  of  my  two  appli- 
ances a  female,  selected  from  among  those 
which  best  lend  themselves  to  my  designs. 
At  this  time  of  the  year,  the  sexes  remain 
134 


Further  Observations 

apart.  The  males  live  in  burrows  of  mid- 
dling depth ;  the  females  go  down  rather 
lower.  Some  of  these  strenuous  workers 
have  already,  without  the  aid  of  a  helper, 
completed  or  very  nearly  completed  the  well 
required  for  the  laying.  On  the  loth  of  De- 
cember, I  unearth  one  of  them  at  a  depth  of 
almost  four  feet.  These  early  diggers  are 
not  what  I  want.  Wishing  to  observe  the 
work  when  in  full  swing,  I  choose  subjects 
buried  not  too  low  down  in  the  fields. 

In  the  centre  of  the  column  of  earth  in 
each  apparatus,  I  make  a  shallow  hole, 
which  marks  the  beginning  of  the  burrow. 
I  drop  the  prisoner  down  it;  and  this  is 
enough  to  accustom  her  to  the  place.  A  re- 
corded number  of  Sheep-droppings  are  dis- 
tributed around  the  opening.  Henceforth 
things  proceed  of  themselves:  I  have  merely 
to  renew  the  provisions  when  the  need  arises. 

The  cold  season  is  spent  in  the  balmy  at- 
mosphere of  a  green-house;  and  nothing  re- 
markable happens.  A  small  mound  is 
formed,  hardly  big  enough  to  fill  the  hollow 
of  my  hand.  The  hour  has  not  yet  come  for 
serious  operations, 

In  the  middle  of  February,  when  the  al- 
mond trees  begin  to  blossom,  the  weather  is 


More  Beetles 

very  mild.  It  is  no  longer  winter,  and  it  is 
not  yet  spring;  the  sun  is  pleasant  in  the  day- 
time and  at  night  there  is  a  certain  charm  in 
the  blaze  of  a  few  logs  upon  the  hearth.  On 
the  rosemary  bushes  in  the  garden,  already 
displaying  their  wealth  of  liliaceous  flowers, 
the  Bees  are  gathering  booty,  the  red-bellied 
Osmiee  are  humming,  while  the  big  grey  Lo- 
custs stand  twirling  their  great  wings  and 
proclaiming  their  joy  of  life.  This  delicious 
season  of  awakening  spring  should  be  to  the 
Minotaurs'  liking. 

I  marry  my  captives :  I  give  each  of  them 
a  mate,  a  magnificent  horned  male,  brought 
home  from  the  fields.  The  household  is  set 
up  during  the  night;  and  without  delay  the 
couple  get  to  work  in  earnest.  The  co-oper- 
ation has  given  fresh  life  to  the  workshop. 
Before  this,  the  males,  leading  solitary  lives 
in  short  burrows,  used  commonly  to  doze, 
not  caring  to  gather  pellets  or  to  sink  shafts 
of  any  depth;  the  females  for  the  most  part 
displayed  no  greater  industry;  the  burrows 
remained  superficial,  the  mounds  compara- 
tively flat,  the  harvest  unproductive.  As 
soon  as  the  household  is  established,  they 
dig  deeply,  and  hoard  plentifully.  In  twice 
twenty-four  hours,  the  expulsion  of  rubbish 
136 


Further  Observations 

has  hidden  the  home  beneath  a  dome-shaped 
heap  of  earthly  plugs  nine  inches  in  width; 
moreover,  a  dozen  droppings  have  been  sent 
down  into  the  cellar. 

This  activity  is  maintained  for  three 
months  or  longer,  broken  by  intervals  of 
repose  of  varying  duration,  which  are  ap- 
parently rendered  necessary  by  the  opera- 
tions of  the  miller  and  baker.  The  female 
never  appears  outside  the  burrow;  it  is  al- 
ways the  male  who  emerges  and  sets  out 
upon  his  quest,  sometimes  when  twilight 
falls,  more  often  at  a  later  hour  of  the  night. 

The  crop  varies  greatly,  though  I  take 
care  to  keep  the  part  around  the  burrow 
properly  supplied.  At  one  time,  two  or 
three  pellets  are  enough;  at  another,  as  many 
as  twenty  are  collected  in  a  single  night. 
The  gleaner  seems  to  be  influenced  by  the 
atmospheric  conditions.  The  harvest  is 
usually  most  active  when  the  sky  looks 
threatening,  as  though  preparing  for  a  storm 
that  fails  to  materialize,  or  when  I  myself 
create  rain  by  watering  the  tray  of  my  appa- 
ratus. In  dry  weather,  on  the  contrary, 
whole  weeks  pass  without  the  slightest  at- 
tempts at  storing. 

As  June  draws  nigh,  feeling  his  end  at 
137 


More  Beetles 

hand,  the  gallant  fellow  redoubles  his  ar- 
dour; he  wishes  before  he  dies  to  leave  his 
family  abundantly  provided  for.  With  a 
not  always  well-timed  enthusiasm,  the  prod- 
igal heaps  pellet  upon  pellet,  to  the  pitch  of 
encumbering  the  burrow  and  making  the 
mother's  business  difficult  to  carry  on.  Ex- 
cessive wealth  is  an  incubus.  The  thought- 
less Beetle  recognizes  the  fact  at  last  and 
ejects  the  superfluous  food  from  the  shaft. 

On  the  first  day  of  June,  in  one  of  my  ap- 
pliances, the  sum  of  pellets  sent  down 
amounts  to  239,  a  number  that  speaks  well 
for  the  trident-bearer's  industry.  My  rec- 
ord of  the  droppings,  kept  as  strictly  as  a 
banker's  account,  confirms  the  enormous  re- 
sult. I  am  overjoyed  by  the  treasure  of  the 
Minotaurs' ;  but,  a  few  days  later,  an  unex- 
pected issue  alarms  me.  One  morning  I 
find  the  mother  dead.  She  has  come  up  to 
breathe  her  last  on  the  surface.  It  appears 
to  be  the  rule  that  neither  of  the  pair  shall 
die  in  the  children's  home.  It  is  at  a  dis- 
tance, in  the  open  air,  that  the  father  and 
mother  meet  their  end. 

This  reversal  of  the  normal  order  of  de- 
cease, the  mother  dying  before  the  father, 
calls  for  enquiry.  I  inspect  the  inside  of  the 


Further  Observations 

apparatus  by  unscrewing  the  three  movable 
shutters.  My  precautions  against  dryness 
have  been  fully  successful.  The  uppermost 
third  of  the  column  of  sand  has  retained  a 
certain  moisture  which  gives  firmness  and 
prevents  any  landslips.  The  middle  third, 
with  its  sheath  of  wet  rags,  is  even  more 
moist.  Here  the  victuals  are  heaped  up  in 
a  well-stored  granary;  the  male  is  there, 
brisk  and  energetic.  In  the  lowest  third, 
which  stands  in  the  wet  earth  of  a  large 
flower-pot,  the  plasticity  is  as  great  as  that 
which  my  spade  encounters  in  the  deep 
natural  burrow.  Everything  seems  to  be  in 
order;  and  yet  there  is  not  a  trace  of  nest- 
building  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft;  there 
are  no  sausages  prepared  or  even  preparing. 
All  the  pellets  are  untouched. 

It  is  quite  obvious :  the  mother  has  refused 
to  lay  and  consequently  the  father  has  re- 
frained from  grinding.  Directly  the  knead- 
ing of  loaves  is  discontinued,  meal  becomes 
useless.  The  harvest  is  none  the  less  plen- 
tiful, in  view  of  future  events.  The  239  pel- 
lets to  which  my  notes  bear  witness  are  there, 
in  their  original  condition  and  divided  into 
several  heaps.  The  shaft  is  not  straight;  it 
has  spiral  slopes,  it  has  landings  communi- 
139 


More  Beetles 

eating  with  little  warehouses.  Here  are 
kept  in  reserve,  at  every  level  of  the  shaft, 
treasures  which  the  mother  will  be  able  to 
employ  even  after  the  hoarder's  decease. 
Pending  the  arrival  of  the  eggs  and  the 
preparation  of  the  loaves  on  the  offsprings' 
behalf,  the  zealous  father  keeps  on  collect- 
ing, storing  a  little  of  the  food  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  dwelling  and  a  great  deal  more  in 
lateral  chambers,  distributed  over  several 
floors. 

But  the  eggs  are  wanting.  What  can  the 
reason  be?  I  begin  by  perceiving  that  the 
shaft  runs  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  appa- 
ratus, which  is  55  inches  high.  It  stops 
suddenly  at  the  board  which  closes  the  bot- 
tom of  the  prism.  This  insuperable  ob- 
stacle shows  signs  of  attempted  erosion. 
The  mother,  therefore,  dug  as  long  as  dig- 
ging was  possible;  then,  coming  to  a  barrier 
against  which  all  her  efforts  failed,  she 
climbed  back  to  the  surface,  worn  out  and 
disheartened,  having  nothing  left  to  do  but 
die,  for  lack  of  an  establishment  to  suit  her. 

Could  she  not  lodge  her  eggs  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  prism,  where  a  degree  of  moisture 
is  maintained  equal  to  that  of  the  natural 
burrows?  Perhaps  not.  In  my  part  of  the 
140 


Further  Observations 

world,  we  had  a  very  peculiar  spring  in  this 
year  1906.  It  snowed  hard  on  the  22nd  and 
23rd  of  March.  Never  in  this  district  had 
I  seen  so  heavy  and  especially  so  late  a  fall 
of  snow.  It  was  followed  by  an  endless 
drought,  which  turned  the  country  into  a 
dust-heap. 

In  the  apparatus,  in  which  my  watchful 
care  maintained  the  requisite  moisture,  the 
mother  Minotaur  seemed  protected  against 
this  calamity.  There  is  nothing  to  tell  us, 
however,  that  she  was  not  fully  cognizant, 
through  the  thickness  of  the  planks,  of  what 
was  happening,  or  rather  about  to  happen, 
outside.  Gifted  with  an  exquisite  sense  of 
atmosphere,  she  had  a  presentiment  of  the 
terrible  drought,  fatal  to  grubs  lodged  too 
near  the  surface.  Being  unable  to  reach  the 
deep  places  recommended  by  instinct,  she 
died  without  laying  her  eggs.  I  see  no  other 
reason  than  this  distrustful  meteorology 
capable  of  accounting  for  the  facts. 

The  second  apparatus,  two  days  after  the 
installation  of  the  couple,  provides  me  with 
a  grievous  surprise.  The  mother,  for  no 
apparent  cause,  leaves  the  house,  goes  to 
earth  in  the  sand  on  the  tray  and  does  not 
budge,  heedless  of  the  cell  where  her  horned 
141 


More  Beetles 

mate  awaits  her.  Seven  times  over,  at  one 
day's  interval,  do  I  carry  her  home,  drop- 
ping her  head  foremost  down  the  shaft.  It 
is  of  no  avail:  she  climbs  back  persistently 
during  the  night,  makes  off  and  goes  to  earth 
as  far  away  as  possible.  If  the  trellis  work 
of  the  cover  did  not  restrain  her  flight,  she 
would  run  away  for  good,  seeking  another 
husband  elsewhere.  Can  the  first  be  dead? 
Not  at  all.  I  find  him  hale  and  hearty  as 
ever  in  the  upper  level  of  the  pit. 

Can  these  stubborn  attempts  at  escape  on 
the  part  of  the  mother,  so  stay-at-home  by 
nature,  be  caused  by  incompatibility  of  tem- 
per? Why  not?  The  female  worker  goes 
away  because  the  male  worker  does  not 
please  her.  It  was  I  myself  who  made  the 
match,  which  was  subject  to  the  hazard  of 
my  discoveries;  and  the  suitor  has  not  found 
favour.  If  things  had  happened  according 
to  rule,  the  bride  would  have  made  a  choice, 
accepting  this  one  and  refusing  that,  guided 
by  merits  of  which  she  alone  could  judge. 
When  a  couple  plan  a  long  life  together,  they 
do  not  lightly  enter  into  indissoluble  bonds. 
This  at  least  is  the  opinion  of  the  Minotaur 
family. 

That  others,  the  vast  majority,  should 
142 


Further  Observations 

become  friends,  fall  out  and  make  it  up 
again,  in  sudden  and  fortuitous  encounters, 
is  a  matter  of  no  consequence.  Life  is 
short;  they  enjoy  it  as  best  they  may,  with- 
out being  too  particular.  But  here  we  have 
the  true  household,  enduring  and  laborious. 
How  is  it  possible  to  toil  in  double  harness 
for  the  welfare  of  the  offspring  without 
mutual  sympathy?  We  have  already  seen 
the  Minotaur  couple  recognizing  each  other 
and  coming  together  again  amid  the  con- 
fusion resulting  from  the  upheaval  of  two 
adjoining  burrows;  here  we  find  it  subject  to 
quite  as  sensitive  a  repugnance.  The  ill- 
mated  bride  sulks;  she  means  to  get  away 
at  all  costs. 

As  the  divorce  seems  destined  to  be  in- 
definitely prolonged,  despite  the  calls  to 
order  which  I  repeat  day  after  day  for  a 
week  by  restoring  the  female  to  her  burrow, 
I  end  by  changing  the  male.  I  replace  him 
by  another,  no  better — and  no  worse-look- 
ing than  was  the  first.  Henceforth  matters 
resume  their  normal  course  and  all  is  as  well 
as  can  be.  The  shaft  is  deepened,  the  out- 
side mound  is  raised,  the  provisions  are 
stored  away,  the  factory  of  preserved  food- 
stuffs is  in  full  swing. 

143 


More  Beetles 

On  the  2nd  of  June,  the  total  number  of 
pellets  carried  down  amounts  to  225.  It  is 
a  splendid  hoard.  Shortly  after,  the  father 
dies  of  old  age.  I  find  him  near  the  mouth 
of  the  burrow,  convulsively  clutching  his  last 
pellet  which  he  had  not  had  time  to  carry 
down.  The  malady  of  age  has  surprised 
him  in  the  midst  of  his  labours,  has  struck 
him  down  on  the  harvest-field. 

The  widow  continues  her  domestic  work. 
To  the  riches  amassed  by  the  deceased,  she 
adds,  by  her  own  activity,  in  the  course  of 
the  month,  thirty  more  pellets,  making  in  all, 
since  the  foundation  of  the  household,  255. 
Then  comes  the  great  heat,  which  favours 
idleness  and  slumber.  The  mother  does  not 
show  herself  any  longer. 

What  does  she  do  down  below,  in  her  cool 
cellar?  Like  the  Copris  mother  apparently, 
she  looks  after  her  brood,  going  from  cell  to 
cell,  sounding  the  cakes,  investigating  what 
is  happening  inside.  It  would  be  an  act  of 
barbarism  to  disturb  her.  We  will  wait  till 
she  comes  out,  accompanied  by  her  offspring. 

Let  us  profit  by  this  long  interval  of  rest 

to  set  forth  the  little  that  I  have  gathered 

from  my  attempts  at  rearing  the  Minotaur  in 

a  glass  tube  on  the  regulation  diet.     The 

144 


Further  Observations 

egg  takes  about  four  weeks  to  hatch.  The 
first  that  I  find,  dating  from  the  I7th  of 
April,  gives  birth  to  a  grub  on  the  I5th  of 
May.  This  slow  process  of  hatching  can  be 
due  only  to  an  insufficiency  of  heat  in  the 
early  spring :  underground,  at  a  depth  of  five 
feet,  the  temperature  hardly  varies. 

For  that  matter,  we  shall  see  the  larva 
likewise  taking  its  time  and  going  through 
the  whole  summer  before  changing  into  the 
adult  insect.  It  is  so  snug  inside  a  sausage, 
in  a  cellar  free  from  atmospheric  variations, 
far  from  the  hurly-burly  of  the  outer  world, 
where  rejoicings  are  not  unattended  by  dan- 
ger; it  is  so  sweet  to  do  nothing,  to  indulge 
in  digestive  slumbers!  Why  hurry?  The 
bustle  of  active  life  will  come  but  too  soon. 
The  Minotaurs  seem  to  hold  that  opinion : 
they  prolong  as  far  as  may  be  the  bliss  of 
infancy. 

The  grub  which  has  just  been  born  in  the 
sand  pegs  away  with  its  legs  and  mandibles, 
strains  and  heaves  with  its  rump,  makes  it- 
self a  passage  and,  from  one  day  to  the  next, 
reaches  the  provisions  piled  up  above  it. 
In  the  glass  tube  in  which  I  rear  it  I  see  it 
climbing,  slipping  into  crevices,  making  a 
selection  from  the  food  about  it  and  caprici- 
145 


More  Beetles 

ously  tasting  on  this  side  and  on  that.  It 
coils  and  uncoils,  it  wriggles  about,  it  sways 
to  and  fro.  It  is  happy.  So  am  I,  to  see  it 
satisfied  and  glistening  with  health.  I  shall 
be  able  to  watch  its  progress  to  the  end. 

In  a  couple  of  months'  time,  now  ascend- 
ing, now  descending  through  its  column  of 
food  and  stopping  at  the  best  places,  it  is  a 
handsome  larva,  well-shaped,  neither  fat  nor 
spare,  not  unlike  the  Cetonia-grub  in  appear- 
ance. Its  hind-legs  have  none  of  the  shock- 
ing irregularity  that  used  to  surprise  me  so 
greatly  when  I  was  studying  the  family  of 
the  Geotrupes. 

The  grub  of  the  last-named  has  hind-legs 
weaker  than  the  rest,  twisted,  unfit  for  walk- 
ing and  turned  over  on  its  back.  It  is  born 
a  cripple.  The  grub  of  the  Minotaur,  de- 
spite the  close  analogy  between  the  two  dung- 
workers,  is  exempt  from  this  infirmity.  Its 
third  pair  of  legs  is  no  less  accurate  in  shape 
and  arrangement  than  the  two  other  pairs. 
Why  is  the  Geotrupes  knock-kneed  at  birth 
and  his  close  kinsman  perfect?  This  is  one 
of  those  little  secrets  of  which  it  is  only  fit- 
ting that  we  should  know  how  to  admit  our 
ignorance. 

The  larval  stage  ends  in  the  last  days  of 
146 


Further  Observations 

August.  Under  the  grub's  digestive  efforts, 
the  food-column,  while  retaining  its  form 
and  its  dimensions,  has  been  converted  into  a 
paste  whose  origin  it  would  be  impossible  to 
recognize.  There  is  not  a  crumb  left  in 
which  the  microscope  can  detect  a  fibre.  The 
Sheep  had  already  divided  the  vegetable 
matter  very  finely;  the  grub,  an  incomparable 
triturator,  has  taken  the  aforesaid  matter 
and  subdivided  it  yet  further,  grinding  it 
after  a  fashion.  In  this  way  it  extracts  and 
uses  the  nutritive  particles  of  which  the 
Sheep's  fourfold  stomach  is  unable  to  take 
advantage. 

To  dig  itself  a  cell  in  this  unctuous  mass 
ought,  according  to  our  logic,  to  suit  the 
grub,  desirous  of  a  yielding  mattress  for  the 
nymph  to  lie  on.  We  are  mistaken  in  our 
suppositions.  The  grub  retreats  to  the 
lower  end  of  its  column,  retires  into  the  sand 
where  the  hatching  took  place  and  there 
makes  itself  a  hard,  rough  cavity.  This 
aberration,  which  takes  no  account  of  the 
future  nymph,  and  its  delicate  skin,  would 
be  likely  to  surprise  us  if  the  homely  dwelling 
were  not  subjected  to  improvement. 

The  hermit's  wallet  has  retained  a  part  of 
the  digestive  residues,  residues  destined  to 
147 


More  Beetles 

disappear  completely,  for  at  the  moment  of 
the  nymphosis  the  body  must  be  free  of  any 
impurity.  With  this  cement,  which  has  un- 
dergone a  prolonged  refining  in  the  intestine, 
the  grub  plasters  its  sandy  wall.  Using  its 
round  rump  as  a  trowel,  it  smooths,  polishes 
and  repolishes  the  layer  of  stucco,  until  the 
rude  cell  of  the  start  becomes  a  velvet-lined 
chamber. 

All  is  ready  for  the  stripping  that  releases 
the  nymph.  This  nymph  has  peculiarities 
deserving  special  mention.  The  male's  tri- 
dent, in  particular,  is  already,  both  in  shape 
and  size,  what  it  will  be  in  the  adult  Beetle. 
At  last,  when  October  is  at  hand,  I  obtain  the 
perfect  insect.  The  total  period  of  develop- 
ment, beginning  with  the  egg,  has  lasted  five 
months. 

Let  us  return  to  the  Minotaur  mother  who 
is  provided  with  255  pellets,  225  of  which 
were  amassed  by  the  male,  before  he  went 
out  to  die,  and  30  by  the  widow  herself. 
When  the  great  heat  comes,  she  no  longer 
shows  herself  at  all,  detained  at  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft  by  her  domestic  duties.  In  spite 
of  my  impatience  to  know  what  is  going  on 
indoors,  I  wait,  keeping  ever  on  the  watch. 
At  last  October  brings  the  first  rains,  so 
148 


Further  Observations 

greatly  wished  for  by  the  husbandman  and 
the  Dung-beetle  alike.  Recent  mounds  be- 
come numerous  in  the  fields.  This  is  the 
season  of  autumnal  rejoicings,  when  the  soil, 
which  has  been  like  a  cinder  all  the  summer, 
recovers  its  moisture  and  is  covered  with 
green  grass  to  which  the  shepherd  leads  his 
flock;  it  is  the  festival  of  the  Minotaur,  the 
exodus  of  the  youngsters  who,  for  the  first 
time,  enter  into  the  joys  of  the  daylight, 
among  the  sugar-plums  dropped  by  the  Sheep 
in  the  pastures. 

However,  nothing  appears  under  the 
cover  of  my  apparatus.  It  is  no  use  waiting 
any  longer,  the  season  is  too  far  advanced. 
I  take  the  pylon  to  pieces.  The  mother  is 
dead;  she  is  even  in  tatters,  a  sign  of  an  end 
already  remote.  I  find  her  at  the  top  of  the 
vertical  shaft,  not  far  from  the  orifice. 

This  position  seems  to  show  that,  when 
her  work  was  done,  the  mother  climbed  up 
to  die  out  of  doors  as  the  father  had  done 
before  her.  A  sudden  and  final  break-down 
overcame  her  on  the  way,  almost  at  her  door. 
I  expected  something  better;  I  pictured  her 
coming  out  accompanied  by  her  offspring: 
the  plucky  creature  deserved  to  see  her  fam- 
ily revelling  in  the  last  fine  days  of  the  year. 
149 


More  Beetles 

I  do  not  abandon  this  idea  of  mine.  If 
the  mother  did  not  come  out  with  the  young- 
sters, there  must  have  been — and  in  fact 
there  were,  as  we  shall  see — important  rea- 
sons for  it.  Right  at  the  bottom  of  the 
column  of  sand,  in  the  part  which  is  coolest 
thanks  to  the  large,  frequently  watered 
flower-pot,  are  eight  sausages,  eight  portions 
of  preserved  food  admirably  worked  into  a 
fine  paste.  These  are  grouped  in  different 
stories,  close  together  and  each  communica- 
ting with  the  main  corridor  by  a  short  pas- 
sage. Since  each  of  these  sausages  was  a 
ration,  the  brood  amounts  to  eight.  This 
restricted  family  was  anticipated.  When 
rearing  becomes  a  costly  matter,  the  mothers 
wisely  limit  their  fecundity. 

But  here  is  an  unexpected  state  of  affairs : 
the  food-cylinders  contain  no  adult,  not  even 
a  nymph;  they  have  nothing  but  grubs  in 
them,  though  these  are  glossy  with  health 
and  almost  fat  enough  to  clamour  for  nym- 
phosis.  This  check  in  their  development 
arouses  surprise,  at  a  time  when  the  new 
generation  is  full-grown,  leaves  the  native 
homestead  and  is  beginning  to  dig  the  win- 
ter burrows.  The  Minotaur  mother's  sur- 
prise must  have  exceeded  my  own.  Weary 
150 


Further  Observations 

of  waiting  for  her  offspring,  she  decided  to 
set  out  by  herself  before  her  strength  was 
completely  exhausted,  lest  she  should  block 
the  ascending  shaft.  A  spasm,  due  to  the 
inexorable  toxin  of  old  age,  struck  her  down 
almost  on  the  threshold  of  the  dwelling. 

The  reason  for  this  abnormal  prolonga- 
tion of  the  larval  state  escapes  me.  Perhaps 
it  should  be  attributed  to  some  hygienic  flaw 
in  my  rearing-apparatus.  It  is  obvious  that 
all  my  care  was  unable  to  realize  fully  the 
conditions  of  well-being  which  the  grubs 
would  have  found  in  the  dampness  of  a  deep, 
unlimited  soil.  Within  a  narrow  prism  of 
sand,  too  much  exposed  to  the  variations  of 
temperature  and  humidity,  feeding  did  not 
take  place  with  the  customary  appetite  and 
growth  was  slower  in  consequence.  After 
all,  these  belated  larvae  appear  to  be  in  first- 
rate  fettle.  I  expect  to  see  them  undergo 
their  transformation  at  the  end  of  the  winter. 
Like  the  young  shoots  whose  development 
is  interrupted  by  the  inclemency  of  the  sea- 
son, they  await  the  stimulus  of  spring. 


151 


CHAPTER    VII 

MINOTAURUS  TYPHCEUS  :  MORALITY 

THIS  is  the  moment  to  recapitulate  the 
Minotaur's  merits.  When  the  severe 
cold  is  over,  he  sets  forth  in  quest  of  a  mate, 
buries  himself  with  her  and  thenceforth  re- 
mains faithful  to  her,  despite  his  frequent 
trips  out  of  doors  and  the  meetings  to  which 
these  are  likely  to  lead.  With  indefatigable 
zeal,  he  assists  the  burrower,  herself  destined 
never  to  leave  her  home  until  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  family.  For  a  month  and  longer, 
he  loads  the  rubbish  of  the  excavation  on  his 
forked  hod;  he  carries  it  up  outside  and  re- 
mains ever  patient,  never  disheartened  by  his 
arduous  feats  of  climbing.  He  leaves  the 
easy  work  of  the  excavating  rake  to  the 
mother  and  reserves  for  himself  the  more 
troublesome  task,  the  exhausting  transport 
through  a  narrow,  perpendicular  shaft  of 
great  depth. 

Next,    the  navvy   becomes  a  collector   of 
foodstuffs;  he  goes  catering  and  gathers  the 
152 


Morality 

wherewithal  for  his  children  to  live  upon. 
To  ease  the  work  of  his  mate,  who  shreds 
and  compresses  the  preserved  foodstuffs, 
packing  it  away  in  layers,  he  once  more 
changes  his  trade  and  becomes  a  miller.  At 
some  distance  from  the  bottom,  he  bruises 
and  crumbles  the  materials  found  hardened 
by  the  sun;  he  makes  them  into  a  meal  and 
flour  which  gradually  pour  down  into  the  ma- 
ternal bake-house.  Lastly,  worn  out  by  his 
efforts,  he  leaves  the  home  and  goes  out  to 
die  at  a  distance,  in  the  open  air.  He  has 
gallantly  performed  his  duty  as  the  head 
of  a  family;  he  has  spent  himself  without 
stint  to  secure  the  prosperity  of  his  off- 
spring. 

The  mother,  on  her  side,  allows  nothing 
to  divert  her  from  her  housekeeping. 
Throughout  her  working  life,  she  never  goes 
out:  dom'i  mansit,  as  the  ancients  used  to  say 
of  their  model  matrons:  she  stays  at  home, 
kneading  her  cylindrical  loaves,  filling  them 
with  an  egg,  watching  them  until  the  exodus 
arrives.  When  the  time  comes  for  the  au- 
tumnal merry-making,  she  at  last  returns  to 
the  surface,  accompanied  by  her  youngsters, 
who  disperse  at  will  to  feast  in  places  fre- 
quented by  the  Sheep.  Thereupon,  having 
153, 


More  Beetles 

nothing  left  to  do,  the  devoted  creature 
perishes. 

Yes,  amid  the  general  indifference  of  the 
fathers  towards  their  offspring,  Minotaurus 
displays  a  most  remarkable  zeal  where  his 
family  is  concerned.  Forgetful  of  himself, 
refusing  to  be  led  away  by  the  rapturous  de- 
lights of  spring,  at  a  time  when  it  would  be 
so  pleasant  to  see  a  little  of  the  country,  to 
feast  among  his  fellows,  to  tease  and  flirt 
with  his  fair  neighbours,  he  sticks  to  his  work 
underground  and  wears  himself  out  to  leave 
a  fortune  to  his  family.  Here  is  one  who, 
when  his  limbs  stiffen  in  death,  is  well  en- 
titled to  say: 

"I  have  done  my  duty;  I  have  worked." 

Now  whence  did  this  industrious  labourer 
derive  his  self-abnegation  and  his  ardour  for 
the  welfare  of  his  young?  Men  tell  us  that 
he  acquired  them  by  a  slow  progress  from 
middling  to  good,  from  good  to  excellent. 
Fortuitous  circumstances,  hostile  one  day, 
favourable  the  next,  have  taught  him  what 
he  knows.  He  has  learnt,  as  man  does,  by 
experience:  he  too  develops,  progresses  and 
improves  himself. 

In  his  little  Dung-beetle  brain,  the  lessons 
of  the  past  leave  lasting  impressions  which, 


Morality 

matured  by  time,  ripen  into  more  considered 
actions.  Necessity  is  the  supreme  inspirer 
of  the  instincts.  Spurred  by  necessity,  the 
animal  is  its  own  artisan;  by  its  own  energies 
it  has  made  itself  as  we  know  it,  with  its  im- 
plements and  its  trade.  Its  habits,  its  capa- 
city and  dexterity  are  integrals  of  infinite  mi- 
nuteness acquired  on  the  illimitable  path  of 
time. 

Such  is  the  argument  of  the  theorists,  an 
argument  sufficiently  imposing  to  allure  any 
independent  mind,  did  not  the  empty  reso- 
nance of  words  usurp  the  full  sonority  of 
reality.  Let  us  question  the  Minotaur  about 
all  this.  To  be  sure,  he  will  not  reveal  to 
us  the  origin  of  instinct;  he  will  leave  the 
problem  as  obscure  as  ever;  but  he  will  at 
least  be  able  to  cast  a  glimmer  into  some 
little  corner;  and  any  light,  however  faint, 
even  the  flickering  light  of  a  taper,  must  be 
welcome  in  the  dark  tavern  into  which  the 
animal  leads  us. 

The  Minotaur  works  exclusively  with 
Sheep-droppings;  for  the  purposes  of  his 
family,  he  needs  them  dry,  toughened  to  the 
consistency  of  horn  by  long  exposure  to  the 
sun.  This  choice  seems  very  strange,  when 
we  remember  that  other  stercoral  collectors 
155 


More  Beetles 

insist  upon  fresh  products.  The  Sacred 
Beetle,  the  Copris,  the  Onthophagus  i1  not 
one  of  these,  nor  any  of  the  others,  cares  for 
this  sort  of  provender.  All,  whether  large 
or  small,  whether  modellers  of  pears  or 
manufacturers  of  sausages,  absolutely  re- 
quire plastic  materials,  retaining  their  full 
flavour. 

The  trident-bearer  needs  the  pastoral 
olive,  the  Sheep's  sugar-plum  drained  of  all 
its  juices.  There  is  room  in  this  world  for 
tastes  of  every  kind;  the  wisest  thing  is  not 
to  discuss  them.  Nevertheless,  one  would 
like  to  know  why,  when  he  is  surrounded  by 
such  abundance  of  tender  and  succulent  vict- 
uals, deriving  from  the  Sheep  or  elsewhere, 
the  three-pronged  Dung-beetle  selects  what 
the  others  scornfully  refuse.  If  he  has  not 
an  innate  predilection  for  this  diet,  how  did 
he  come  to  throw  over  the  excellent,  in  which 
he  had  the  right  to  share  with  the  rest,  and 
adopt  the  inferior,  which  is  not  employed 
elsewhere? 

We  will  not  labour  the  point.  It  amounts 
to  this,  that  somehow  the  dry  pellets  have 
fallen  to  the  Minotaur's  share.  This  detail 
admitted,  the  rest  unfolds  itself  with  insis- 

!€£.     The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others:  chaps,  xi.,  xvii. 
and  xviii. — Translator's  Note. 
156 


Morality 

tent  logic.  Necessity,  the  instigator  of  prog- 
ress, seems  to  have  gradually  trained  the 
male  Minotaur  in  his  functions  as  a  collabo- 
rator. The  father  of  yore,  an  idler,  as  is 
the  rule  among  insects,  has  become  an  ardent 
worker  because,  what  with  one  experiment 
after  another,  the  race  has  benefited. 

What  does  he  do  with  his  harvest?  He 
soberly  feeds  on  it,  when  the  moisture  in  the 
burrow  has  somewhat  softened  the  thankless 
morsels;  he  cards  great  quantities  of  them 
into  a  felt  in  which  he  buries  himself  in  the 
winter  to  shield  himself  against  the  cold. 
B.ut  these  are  the  lesser  uses  of  his  plunder; 
the  main  thing  is  the  future  of  the  family. 

Now  the  grub,  whose  stomach  is  at  first 
so  squeamish,  would  never  bite  into  such 
snacks  as  these,  if  they  were  left  untouched. 
If  they  are  to  be  accepted  and  relished,  they 
must  be  subjected  to  a  refining  which  will 
give  them  tenderness  and  flavour.  In  what 
laboratory  is  the  cooking  to  be  done?  Ob- 
viously underground,  the  only  place  where 
an  equable  moisture  prevails,  free  from  the 
unwholesome  excess  of  humidity.  Thus  the 
quality  of  the  food  gives  rise  to  the 
burrow. 

And  this  burrow  has  to  be  deep,  very  deep, 
157 


More  Beetles 

in  order  that  the  scorching  heat  of  summer 
may  never  reach  them  and  render  them  use- 
less by  drying  them  up.  The  grub  develops 
slowly;  it  will  not  attain  the  adult  form  until 
September.  In  its  underground  home,  it  has 
to  brave  with  impunity  the  hottest  and  driest 
period  of  the  year,  without  running  the  risk 
of  finding  its  bread  too  stale.  A  depth  of 
five  feet  is  not  too  much  to  save  the  grub  and 
its  food  from  the  fiery  floods  of  sunlight  in 
the  dog-days. 

The  mother  has  the  strength  to  dig  a  pit 
of  this  kind  by  herself,  however  deep  it  may 
be.  No  one  will  come  to  her  assistance  in 
her  untiring  work  of  excavation;  but  at  the 
same  time  the  rubbish  has  to  be  shot  outside, 
so  that  the  shaft  may  be  always  clear.  This 
is  needed  first  for  the  going  and  coming  dur- 
ing the  storage  of  victuals  and  later  for  the 
easy  emergence  of  the  offspring. 

Boring  and  carrying  would  be  too  much 
for  a  single  worker :  the  warm  season  would 
be  too  short  for  such  a  task.  Thus,  there- 
upon, long  prepared  by  the  events  of  each 
successive  year,  a  flash  of  light  penetrates  the 
Dung-beetle's  brain.  The  father  says  to 
himself: 

158 


Morality 

"Let's  lend  a  hand.  It  will  make  things 
go  faster  and  better.  I  have  three  horns 
which  I  will  use  as  a  hod.  I  propose  to  offer 
my  services  to  the  digger  and  to  hoist  the 
loosened  soil  to  the  surface." 

Working  in  double  harness  is  invented; 
the  household  is  founded.  Other  cares,  no 
less  urgent,  confirm  the  agreement.  The 
Minotaur's  victuals,  those  compact  morsels, 
have  first  to  be  broken  up,  bruised  and  re- 
duced to  particles  which  will  lend  themselves 
better  to  the  elaboration  of  the  final  cake. 
After  passing  through  the  mill,  the  material 
must  be  carefully  compressed  into  a  cylinder, 
in  which  fermentation  will  complete  the  de- 
velopment of  the  requisite  qualities.  The 
whole  business  Is  a  slow  and  meticulous  work. 

To  shorten  it,  therefore,  and  to  make  the 
most  of  the  fine  weather,  they  set  up  in 
couples.  The  father  collects  the  raw  mate- 
rials outside.  On  the  upper  floor,  he  turns 
his  harvest  into  meal.  On  the  lower  floor, 
the  mother  receives  the  grist,  sifts  it  and 
packs  it  into  a  column,  gently  patting  down 
each  layer.  She  kneads  the  dough  for  which 
her  mate  furnishes  the  flour.  She  wqrjts  at 
the  kneading-trough,  he  at  the  mill.  Thus, 
by  sharing  the  labour,  they  hasten  the  result 
159 


More  Beetles 

and  make  the  very  utmost  of  the  brief  time  at 
their  disposal. 

So  far,  all  is  well.  Had  they  learnt  their 
trade  in  the  school  of  the  centuries,  through 
experiments  of  their  own  devising  which 
proved  successful  from  time  to  time,  they 
would  behave  no  differently.  But  now 
things  begin  to  go  awry.  There  is  a  reverse 
to  the  medal  which  proclaims  the  contrary 
of  what  we  read  on  the  obverse. 

The  cake  that  has  just  been  prepared  is  the 
ration  of  one  grub,  absolutely  of  one  alone. 
The  prosperity  of  the  race  calls  for  more. 
Well,  what  happens?  This,  that  the  father 
leaves  the  house  as  soon  as  the  first  ration  is 
prepared;  the  assistant  deserts  the  baker  and 
goes  off  to  die  at  a  distance.  The  excava- 
tions made  in  the  meadows  at  the  beginning 
of  April  always  give  me  the  two  sexes :  the 
father  at  the  top  of  the  house,  engaged  in 
shaping  the  pellets;  the  mother  down  at  the 
bottom,  working  on  the  stacked  provisions. 
A  little  later,  the  mother,  is  always  alone: 
the  father  has  disappeared. 

As  the  laying  is  not  over,  the  survivor  has 

to  continue  the  work  unaided.     True,  the 

deep  burrow,  which  cost  so  much  time  and 

trouble,  is  ready;  so  is  the  cell  of  the  first- 

160 


Morality 

born  of  the  family;  but  the  others  have  to  be 
provided  for  and  it  would  be  advantageous 
to  rear  as  many  of  them  as  possible.  The 
installation  of  each  demands  that  the  female, 
who  until  now  has  led  a  sedentary  life,  should 
often  venture  abroad.  The  stay-at-home 
becomes  an  out-of-doors  collector;  she  gath- 
ers the  pellets  in  the  neighbourhood,  brings 
them  to  the  pit,  stores  them,  breaks  them  up, 
kneads  them  and  packs  them  into  cylinders. 

And  it  is  at  this  moment  of  maternal  activ- 
ity that  the  father  abandons  the  home !  He 
excuses  himself  on  the  score  of  his  decrep- 
itude. He  lacks  not  good-will  but  life  itself. 
Reluctantly  he  retires,  worn  out  with  years. 

We  might  reply : 

"Considering  that  the  successive  stages  of 
evolution  have  made  you  invent  first  house- 
keeping in  common,  a  sublime  discovery,  and 
then  the  deep  cellar,  tending  to  keep  the  pre- 
serves in  good  condition  during  the  summer; 
the  grinding-process  which  gives  plasticity 
and  prevents  dryness;  and  the  packing  into 
sausages,  in  which  the  materials  ferment  and 
improve :  considering  all  this,  could  not  that 
same  evolution  teach  you  to  prolong  your  life 
for  a  few  weeks?  With  the  aid  of  a  most 
carefully  conducted  selection,  the  affair  does 
161 


More  Beetles 

not  strike  me  as  impracticable.  In  one  of 
my  appliances,  the  male  held  out  until  June, 
after  placing  a  treasure-house  of  pellets  at 
his  mate's  disposal." 

He  in  like  manner  would  be  entitled  to  say: 
"The  Sheep  is  not  always  very  generous. 
The  crops  are  lean  around  the  burrow;  and, 
when  I  have  rolled  the  few  available  victuals 
into  the  burrow,  I  soon  pine  away,  worn  out 
by  unemployment.  If  my  colleague  survived 
till  June  in  a  scientific  apparatus,  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  surrounded  by  inexhaustible 
riches.  The  power  of  storing  as  much  as  he 
pleased  made  life  sweet  to  him;  the  certainty 
of  work  lengthened  his  days.  I  am  not  as 
well-provided  for  as  he  and  I  allow  myself 
to  die  of  boredom  when  I  have  finished  gath- 
ering the  poor  harvest  in  my  neighbour- 
hood." 

"Very  well;  but  you  have  wings,  you  are 
able  to  fly.  Why  do  you  not  go  some  dis- 
tance away?  You  would  find  enough  to  sat- 
isfy your  passion  for  hoarding.  But  you 
don't  do  this.  Why?  Because  time  has  not 
taught  you  the  fruitful  device  of  making 
excursions  a  few  steps  from  your  home. 
How  is  it  that,  in  order  to  assist  your  mate 
till  the  end  of  her  labours,  you  have  not  yet 
162 


Morality 

learnt  to  keep  up  your  courage  for  a  few 
days  longer  and  glean  a  little  farther  all  a- 
round  your  home?  ...  If  evolution  which, 
as  they  say,  has  instructed  you  in  your  diffi- 
cult trade,  has  nevertheless  allowed  you  to 
remain  in  ignorance  of  these  highly  impor- 
tant details,  which  are  easy  to  carry  out  after 
a  short  apprenticeship,  the  reason  is  because 
it  has  taught  you  nothing  at  all,  whether 
housekeeping,  burrowing  or  baking.  Your 
evolution  is  a  permanent  affair.  You  move 
about  within  a  circle  with  a  fixed  radius;  you 
are  and  always  will  be  what  you  were  when 
the  first  pellet  was  lowered  into  the  cellar." 

All  this  explains  nothing.  True;  but  to 
know  how  not  to  know  at  least  gives  a  stabb 
equilibrium  and  repose  to  our  restless  curios- 
ity. We  are  very  near  the  precipice  of  the 
unknowable.  That  precipice  should  be  en- 
graved with  what  Dante  inscribes  on  the  gate 
of  his  Inferno: 

"Lasciate  ogni  speranza" 

Yes,  let  all  of  us  who,  when  we  take  the 
atom  by  assault,  imagine  that  we  are  storm- 
ing the  universe:  let  us  abandon  all  hope 
here.  The  sanctuary  of  origin  will  not  be 
opened  for  us.  In  vain  do  we  seek  to  fathom 
the  riddle  of  life:  we  shall  never  attain 
163 


More  Beetles 

the  exact  truth.  The  hook  of  theory  catches 
nothing  but  illusions,  acclaimed  to-day  as  the 
last  word  of  knowledge,  rejected  as  false  to- 
morrow and  replaced  by  others  which  are 
sooner  or  later  seen  to  be  erroneous  in  their 
turn.  Where  then  is  this  truth?  Does  it, 
like  the  asymptote  of  the  geometricians,  re- 
cede into  infinity,  pursued  by  our  curiosity, 
which  always  draws  nearer  to  it  without  ever 
reaching  it? 

This  comparison  would  be  suitable  were 
our  knowledge  a  curve  of  uniform  devel- 
opment; but  it  goes  forwards  and  backwards, 
up  and  down,  twists  and  turns,  approaches 
its  asymptote  and  then  suddenly  runs  away 
from  it.  It  may  chance  to  cross  it,  but  only 
unconsciously.  The  full  knowledge  of  the 
truth  escapes  it. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Minotaur  couple, 
in  so  far  as  our  casual  observations  enable 
us  to  see,  are  remarkably  zealous  where  the 
family  is  concerned.  We  should  have  to  go 
high  indeed  in  the  animal  series  to  find  simi- 
lar instances.  Furred  and  feathered  life 
will  afford  us  hardly  any  equivalents. 

If  such  things  occurred,  not  in  the  Dung- 
beetle  world  but  in  our  own,  we  should  speak 
of  them  as  pertaining  to  a  very  fine  morality. 
164 


Morality 

The  expression  would  be  out  of  place  here. 
Animals  have  no  morality.  It  is  known  to 
man  alone,  who  formulates  it  and  improves 
upon  it  gradually  in  the  light  of  his  con- 
science, that  sensitive  mirror  in  which  is  con- 
centrated all  that  is  best  within  us. 

The  advance  of  this  improvement,  the 
loftiest  of  all,  is  extremely  slow.  Cain,  the 
first  murderer,  after  slaying  his  brother,  re- 
flected a  little,  we  are  told.  Was  this  re- 
morse on  his  part?  Apparently  not,  but 
rather  apprehension  of  a  hand  stronger  than 
his  own.  The  fear  of  punishment  to  reward 
the  crime  was  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

And  this  fear  was  justified,  for  Cain's  suc- 
cessors were  singularly  skilled  in  the  art  of 
constructing  homicidal  engines.  After  the 
fist  came  the  stick,  the  club,  the  stone  thrown 
by  the  sling.  Progress  brought  the  flint 
arrow-head  and  ax  and  later  the  bronze 
sword,  the  iron  pike,  the  steel  blade.  Chem- 
istry took  a  hand  in  the  business  and  must  be 
awarded  the  palm  for  extermination. 
In  our  own  day,  the  wolves  of  Manchuria 
could  tell  us  what  orgies  of  human  flesh  they 
owe  to  improved  explosives. 

What  has  the  future  in  store  for  us?  One 
dares  not  think  of  it.  Piling  at  the  roots  of 
165 


More  Beetles 

our  mountains,  picrate  on  dynamite,  pan- 
clactite  on  fulminate  and  other  explosives  a 
thousand  times  more  powerful,  which  sci- 
ence, ever  in  progress,  will  not  fail  to  invent, 
shall  we  end  by  blowing  up  the  planet? 
Thrown  into  confusion  by  the  shock,  will  the 
ragged  splinters  of  the  terrestrial  clod  whirl 
away  in  vortices  like  that  of  the  asteroids, 
the  apparent  ruins  of  a  vanished  world? 
This  would  be  the  end  of  all  great  and  noble 
things,  but  it  would  be  the  end  also  of  much 
that  is  ugly  and  much  that  is  pitiful. 

In  our  day,  with  materialism  in  full  sway, 
we  have  physics  working  precisely  at  demol- 
ishing matter.  It  pulverizes  the  atom,  sub- 
tilizing it  until  it  disappears,  transformed 
into  energy.  The  tangible  and  visible  mass 
is  only  appearance;  in  reality  all  is  force.  If 
the  knowledge  of  the  future  succeeded  in 
harking  back  on  a  large  scale  to  the  primor- 
dial origins  of  matter,  a  few  slabs  of  rock, 
suddenly  disintegrated  into  energy,  would 
dislocate  the  glove  into  a  chaos  of  forces. 
Then  Gilbert's *  great  word-picture  would 
be  realized: 

1  Nicolas    Joseph     Laurent     Gilbert      (1751-1780),     a 
satirical   poet,  many  strophes  of  whose  Adieux  &  la  Vie 
have  become  classic. — Translator's  Note. 
166 


Morality 

"Et  d'ailes  et  de  faux  depouille  desormais, 

Sur  les  mondes  detruits  le  temps  dort, 
immobile."  1 

But  do  not  rely  overmuch  on  these  heroic 
remedies.  Let  us  take  Candide's 2  advice 
and  cultivate  our  garden;  let  us  water  our 
cabbage-patch  and  accept  things  as  they  are. 

Nature,  a  ruthless  wet-nurse,  knows  no- 
thing of  pity.  After  pampering  her  charges, 
she  takes  them  by  the  foot,  whirls  them 
round  her  head  and  dashes  them  to  pieces 
against  a  rock.  This  is  her  way  of  dimin- 
ishing the  burden  of  her  excessive  fertility. 

Death,  well  and  good;  but  of  what  use  is 
pain?  When  a  mad  Dog  endangers  the 
public  safety,  do  we  speak  of  inflicting  atro- 
cious sufferings  upon  him?  We  put  a  bullet 
into  him ;  we  do  not  torture  him :  we  defend 
our  own  lives.  In  the  old  days,  however,  the 
law,  with  a  great  parade  of  ermine  and  red 
gowns,  used  to  draw  and  quarter  criminals, 
to  break  them  on  the  wheel,  to  roast  them 
at  the  stake,  to  burn  them  in  a  brimstone 
shirt:  it  pretended  to  expiate  the  crime  by 
the  horror  of  the  torture.  Morality  has 

1  "And  thenceforth,  of  his  wings  and  scythe  despoiled, 

Time  sleeps,  unmoving  on  the  worlds  destroyed." 

2  Voltaire's  story  of  that  name. — Translator's  Note. 

167 


More  Beetles 

made  great  strides  since  then;  in  our  time,  a 
more  enlightened  conscience  compels  us  to 
treat  the  wrong-doer  with  the  same  clemency 
that  we  show  to  the  mad  Dog.  We  put  an 
end  to  his  existence  without  any  stupid  re- 
finements of  cruelty. 

It  even  seems  as  though  a  day  would  come 
when  legal  murder  will  disappear  from  our 
codes:  instead  of  killing  the  criminal,  we 
shall  strive  to  cure  his  infirmity.  We  shall 
fight  the  virus  of  crime  as  we  fight  that  of 
yellow  fever  or  of  the  plague.  But  when 
may  we  expect  to  see  this  absolute  respect 
for  human  life?  Will  it  take  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  years  to  come  into  being? 
Possibly.  Conscience  is  so  slow  in  emerging 
from  its  slough. 

Ever  since  there  have  been  men  on  this 
earth,  morality  has  been  far  from  saying  its 
last  word  even  on  the  subject  of  the  family, 
that  pre-eminently  hallowed  group.  The 
ancient  paterfamilias  is  a  despot  in  his  own 
house.  He  rules  over  his  household  as  over 
the  herd  in  his  demesne;  he  has  rights  of  life 
and  death  over  his  children,  disposes  of 
them  at  will,  barters  them  in  exchange  for 
others,  sells  them  into  slavery,  brings  them 
up  for  his  own  sake  and  not  for  theirs. 
168 


Morality 

Primitive  legislation  displays  a  revolting  bru- 
tality in  this  respect. 

Things  have  improved  considerably  since 
then,  though  the  ancient  barbarism  has  not 
been  wholly  abolished.  Is  there  any  lack  of 
people  among  ourselves  to  whom  morality 
is  reduced  to  a  fear  of  the  police?  Could  we 
not  find  many  who  rear  their  children,  as  we 
breed  Rabbits,  to  make  a  profit  out  of  them? 
It  has  been  necessary  to  formulate  the 
promptings  of  conscience  into  a  strict  law  in 
order  to  save  the  child,  up  to  the  age  of  thir- 
teen, from  the  hell  of  the  factories  where  the 
poor  little  fellow's  future  was  destroyed  for 
a  few  halfpence  a  day. 

Though  animals  have  no  morality,  which 
is  a  thing  troublesome  to  acquire  and  always 
undergoing  improvement  in  the  brains  of  the 
philosophers,  they  have  their  command- 
ments, laid  down  in  the  beginning,  immu- 
table, imperious  and  as  deeply  imprinted  in 
their  being  as  the  need  to  breathe  and  eat. 
At  the  head  of  the  commandments  stands 
maternal  solicitude.  Since  life's  primary  ob- 
ject is  the  continuation  of  life,  it  is  also  essen- 
tial that  the  fragile  beginnings  of  existence 
should  be  made  possible.  It  is  the  mother's 
duty  to  see  to  this. 

169 


More  Beetles 

No  mother  neglects  this  duty.  The  dull- 
est at  least  lay  their  germs  in  propitious 
places,  where  the  new-born  offspring  will  of 
themselves  find  the  wherewithal  to  live. 
The  best-endowed  suckle,  spoon-feed  or  store 
food  for  their  children,  build  nests,  cells  or 
nurseries,  often  masterpieces  of  exquisite  del- 
icacy. But  as  a  rule,  especially  in  the  insect 
class,  the  fathers  become  indifferent  to  their 
progeny.  We,  who  have  not  yet  laid  aside 
all  our  old  savagery,  do  the  same  to  a  small 
extent. 

The  decalogue  orders  us  to  honour  our 
father  and  mother.  This  would  be  perfect, 
if  it  were  not  silent  as  to  the  duties  of  the 
father  towards  his  sons.  It  speaks  as  once 
the  tyrant  of  the  family  clan  used  to  speak, 
the  paterfamilias,  referring  everything  to 
himself  and  caring  but  little  for  others.  It 
took  a  long  time  to  make  people  understand 
that  the  present  owes  itself  to  the  future  and 
that  the  father's  first  duty  is  to  prepare  the 
sons  for  the  harsh  struggles  of  life. 

Others,  among  the  humblest,  have  out- 
stripped it.  Prompted  by  an  unconscious  in- 
spiration, they  straightway  resolved  the  pa- 
ternal problem,  which  among  us  is  still  ob- 
scure. The  Minotaur  father  in  particular, 
170 


Morality 

if  he  had  a  vote  in  these  grave  matters, 
would  amend  our  decalogue.  He  would 
move  to  add,  in  simple  lines  imitated  from 
our  catechism: 

"Bring  up  your  children  in  the  way  they 
should  do." 


171 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  ERGATES   ;  THE  COSSUS 

THIS  is  Shrove  Tuesday,  a  relic  of  the 
saturnalia  of  old;  and  I  have  it  in  my 
mind  to  do  some  strange  cooking,  which 
would  have  delighted  the  soul  of  a  Roman 
gourmet.  When  I  let  my  imagination  run 
away  with  me,  I  want  my  folly  to  achieve 
some  measure  of  notoriety.  I  must  have 
witnesses,  connoisseurs  who  will  be  able, 
each  in  his  fashion,  to  appreciate  the  merits 
of  an  unknown  fare  of  which  none  but  the 
classical  scholar  has  ever  heard  before.  A 
question  so  serious  must  be  debated  in 
council. 

There  will  be  eight  of  us:  my  family,  to 
begin  with,  and  then  two  friends,  probably 
the  only  persons  in  the  village  in  whose  pres- 
ence I  may  venture  on  these  eccentricities  of 
the  table  without  provoking  comments  on 
what  would  be  regarded  as  a  depraved  taste. 

One  of  them  is  the  schoolmaster.  Let  us 
call  him  by  his  name,  Julian,  as  he  has  no  ob- 
172 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

jection  and  is  not  afraid  of  what  foolish 
people  will  say  if  ever  they  get  to  hear  of  our 
banquet.  He  is  a  man  of  liberal  views  and 
scientific  training,  whose  mind  is  always  open 
to  admit  the  truth  in  any  guise. 

The  second,  Marius  Guigne,  is  blind.  A 
joiner  by  trade,  he  wields  his  saw  and  plane 
in  the  blackest  darkness  with  as  sure  a  hand 
as  any  skilled  craftsman  who  enjoys  the  full 
use  of  his  eyes  can  exercise  in  broad  daylight. 
He  lost  his  sight  when  a  boy,  after  knowing 
the  blessings  of  the  sunshine  and  the  miracles 
of  colour.  To  make  up  for  the  perpetual 
gloom  in  which  he  lives,  he  has  acquired  a 
gentle  and  ever-cheerful  philosophy,  a  pas- 
sionate desire  to  fill  as  best  he  can  the  gaps 
left  by  his  meagre  primary  education,  an  ear 
exquisitely  refined  in  musical  matters  and  a 
sensitiveness  of  skin  which  is  very  unusual  in 
fingers  hardened  by  the  labour  of  the  carpen- 
ter's shop.  When  he  and  I  are  talking,  if  he 
wants  to  know  something  about  this  or  that 
geometrical  property,  he  holds  out  his  hand 
to  me,  wide  open.  It  is  our  black-board.  1 
trace  with  my  forefinger  the  figure  to  be  con- 
structed and  accompany  the  light  contact 
with  a  short  explanation.  That  is  enough 
to  make  him  understand  the  idea  which  the 
173 


More  Beetles 

plane,  the  saw  and  the  lathe  will  translate 
into  actuality. 

On  Sunday  afternoons,  especially  in  win- 
ter, when  three  or  four  logs  blazing  on  the 
hearth  afford  a  pleasant  change  from  the 
fierce  blast  of  the  mistral,  these  two  meet  at 
my  house.  We  three  form  the  village  Athe- 
naeum, the  rustic  Academy  where  everything 
is  discussed  except  the  hateful  subject,  poli- 
tics. Philosophy,  morals,  literature,  philol- 
ogy, science,  history,  numismatics,  archae- 
ology by  turns  furnish  matter  for  our  ex- 
change of  ideas,  in  accordance  with  the  un- 
foreseen twists  of  the  conversation.  At  one 
of  these  gatherings,  which  lighten  my  soli- 
tude, today's  dinner  was  plotted.  The  un- 
usual dish  consists  of  Cossi,  a  famous  deli- 
cacy in  the  days  of  antiquity. 

The  Romans,  when  they  had  devoured 
their  fill  of  nations,  besotted  by  excessive  lux- 
ury, took  to  eating  worms.  Pliny  tells  us: 

"Romanis  in  hoc  luxuria  esse  coepit,  prae- 
grandesque  roborum  vermes  delicatiore  sunt 
in  cibo;  cossus  vacant"  1 

What  are  these  worms  exactly?  The 
Latin  naturalist  is  not  very  explicit;  he  tells 

1  "Luxury  had  reached  such  a  pitch  among  the  Romans 
that  they  looked  upon  the  huge  worms  of  the  oak  as  a 
delicacy;   they  called  them  Cossi." 
174 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

us  nothing  at  all  except  that  they  live  in  the 
trunks  of  oaks.  No  matter:  with  this  de- 
tail we  cannot  go  astray.  The  worm  in  ques- 
tion is  the  larva  of  the  Great  Capricorn 
(Cerambyx  heros).1  A  frequent  inmate  of 
the  oak,  it  is,  in  fact,  a  lusty  grub  and  at- 
tracts one's  attention  by  its  resemblance  to  a 
fat,  white  sausage.  But  the  expression 
pragrandesque  roborum  vermes  should,  to 
my  thinking,  be  generalized  a  little.  Pliny 
was  no  precisian.  Having  occasion  to  speak 
of  a  big  worm,  he  mentions  that  of  the  oak, 
the  commonest  of  the  larger  ones;  and  he 
overlooks  the  others  or  takes  them  for 
granted,  probably  failing  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  first. 

Let  us  not  keep  too  strictly  to  the  tree 
mentioned  in  the  Latin  text,  but  consider 
what  the  old  author  had  really  in  mind  when 
he  spoke  of  these  worms.  We  shall  find 
other  worms  no  less  worthy  of  the  title  of 
Cossus  than  the  Oak-worm,  for  instance  the 
worm  of  the  chestnut-tree,  the  larva  of  the 
Stag-beetle. 

One  indispensable  condition  must  be  ful- 
filled to  earn  the  celebrated  name:  the  grub 

1  Cf.  The  Glow-worm  and  Other  Beetles:  chap.  vii. — 
Translator's  Note. 

175 


More  Beetles 

must  be  plump,  of  a  good  size  and  not  too  re- 
pulsive in  appearance.  Now  by  a  curious 
freak  of  scientific  nomenclature  it  happens 
that  the  name  of  Cossus  has  been  allotted  to 
the  mighty  caterpillar x  whose  galleries 
honeycomb  old  willows :  a  hideous,  malodor- 
ous creature,  the  colour  of  wine-lees.  No 
gullet,  not  even  a  Roman's,  would  have 
dared  to  swallow  anything  so  loathsome. 
The  Cossus  of  the  modern  naturalists  is  cer- 
tainly not  that  of  the  epicures  of  old. 

In  addition  to  the  larvae  of  the  Capricorn 
and  the  Stag-beetle,  which  have  been  identi- 
fied by  the  writers  with  Pliny's  famous  worm, 
I  know  another  which,  in  my  opinion,  would 
fulfil  the  requisite  conditions  even  better.  I 
will  tell  you  how  I  discovered  it. 

The  short-sighted  law  of  the  land  has 
nothing  to  say  to  the  slayer  of  noble  trees, 
the  unimaginative  fool  who,  for  a  handful  of 
crown-pieces,  pillages  the  stately  woods,  lays 
bare  the  countryside,  dries  up  the  clouds  and 
turns  the  soil  into  a  parching  slag-heap. 
There  was  in  my  neighbourhood  a  magnifi- 
cent clump  of  pine-trees,  the  joy  of  the  Black- 
bird, the  Thrush,  the  Jay,  and  other  passers- 
by,  of  whom  I  was  one  and  not  the  least  as- 

1  Cossus  ligniperda,  the  caterpillar  of  Xylentes  cossus, 
the    Great    Goat-moth. — Translator's  Note. 
176 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

siduous.  The  owner  had  it  cut  down.  Two 
or  three  years  after  the  massacre,  I  visited 
the  spot. 

The  pines  had  disappeared,  converted  into 
timber  and  firewood;  nothing  remained  but 
the  enormous  stumps,  which  were  too  diffi- 
cult to  extract.  They  were  doomed  to  rot 
where  they  stood.  Not  only  had  the 
weather  left  its  marks  upon  them,  but  their 
interior  was  full  of  wide  galleries,  the  signs 
of  a  vigorous  population  completing  the 
work  of  death  begun  by  man.  It  struck  me 
that  it  would  be  as  well  to  enquire  what  was 
swarming  inside  them.  The  landlord  had 
made  the  most  of  his  coppice;  he  left  it  to  me 
to  make  the  most  of  the  ideas  which  it  sug- 
gested, since  these  had  no  value  for  him. 

One  fine  afternoon  in  winter,  all  my  family 
foregather  and,  with  my  son  Paul  wielding 
a  heavy  implement,  we  proceed  to  break  up 
a  couple  of  stumps.  The  wood,  hard  and 
dry  outside,  has  been  transformed  inside  into 
very  soft  layers,  like  slabs  of  touchwood. 
In  the  midst  of  this  moist,  warm  decay,  a 
worm  as  thick  as  my  thumb  abounds.  Never 
have  I  seen  a  fatter  one. 

Its  ivory  whiteness  is  pleasing  to  the  eye 
and  its  satin-like  delicacy  is  soft  to  the  touch. 
177 


More  Beetles 

If  we  can  for  once  emancipate  ourselves 
from  gastronomic  prejudices,  it  is  even  appe- 
tizing, resembling  as  it  does  a  translucent  bag 
filled  to  bursting-point  with  fresh  butter.  At 
the  sight  of  it,  an  idea  occurs  to  us :  this  must 
be  the  Cossus,  the  true  Cossus,  far  superior 
to  the  coarse  grub  of  the  Capricorn.  Why 
not  try  the  much-vaunted  fare?  Here  is  a 
capital  opportunity,  which  perhaps  will  never 
occur  again. 

We  gather  a  plentiful  crop,  therefore,  in 
the  first  place  so  that  we  may  study  the  grub, 
whose  shape  proclaims  it  to  be  the  larva  of 
a  Longicorn,  or  Long-horned  Beetle,  and  in 
the  second  place  to  investigate  the  culinary 
problem.  We  want  to  know  what  insect 
exactly  is  represented  by  this  larva;  we  also 
want  to  discover  the  edible  value  of 
the  Cossus.  It  is  Shrove  Tuesday,  a  propi- 
tious date  for  such  extravagances  of  the 
table. 

I  know  not  with  what  sauce  the  Cossus  was 
eaten  in  the  days  of  the  Caesars;  no  Aepicus  l 
of  the  period  has  bequeathed  us  any  informa- 
tion in  this  respect.  Ortolans  are  roasted 
skewered  on  a  spit;  to  add  the  seasoning  of 

1  Marcus  Gabius  Apicus,  a  famous  Roman  epicure  who 
lived  in  the  days  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius. — (Translator's 
Note. 

178 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

any  complicated  dressing  would  be  a  profana- 
tion. Let  us  do  the  same  with  the  Cossi, 
those  Ortolans  of  entomology.  Stuck  in  a 
row  on  a  skewer,  they  are  grilled  over  red- 
hot  charcoal.  A  pinch  of  salt,  the  necessary 
condiment  of  our  meats,  is  the  only  extran- 
eous relish.  The  roast  turns  a  golden 
brown,  shrivels  slowly  and  sheds  a  few  oily 
tears,  which  take  fire  on  touching  the  coal 
and  burn  with  a  fine  white  flame.  The  dish 
is  ready.  Let  us  serve  it  hot. 

Encouraged  by  my  example,  my  fam- 
ily bravely  attack  their  skewerfuls.  The 
schoolmaster  hesitates,  a  victim  to  his  fancy, 
which  pictures  the  fat  worms  of  a  moment 
ago  crawling  about  his  plate.  He  picks  out 
the  smallest  ones,  as  less  likely  to  provoke 
unpleasant  reminiscences.  The  blind  man  is 
not  so  much  at  the  mercy  of  his  imagination, 
gives  his  undivided  attention  to  the  dish  be- 
fore him  and  eats  with  every  sign  of  satis- 
faction. 

All  are  of  one  opinion.  The  joint  is  juicy, 
tender,  and  very  savoury.  The  taste  re- 
minds one  a  little  of  burnt  almonds  flavoured 
with  the  merest  suggestion  of  vanilla.  In 
short,  the  dish  of  worms  is  pronounced  to  be 
most  agreeable,  one  might  even  say  first-rate. 
179 


More  Beetles 

What  would  it  not  be  if  the  art  of  the  ancient 
epicures  had  been  lavished  on  its  cooking! 

The  skin  alone  leaves  something  to  be  de- 
sired: it  is  very  tough.  One  might  describe 
the  new  dish  as  the  daintiest  of  force-meat, 
wrapped  in  parchment;  the  inside  is  delicious, 
but  the  outside  defies  the  teeth.  I  offer  it  to 
my  Cat:  she  refuses  it,  though  she  is  very 
fond  of  sausage-skin.  The  two  Dogs,  my 
assiduous  acolytes  at  dinner-time,  refuse  it 
likewise,  refuse  it  obstinately,  certainly  not 
because  cf  its  hard  texture,  for  their  omniv- 
orous gullets  are  sublimely  indifferent  to  dif- 
ficulties of  deglutition.  But  their  subtle 
sense  of  smell  recognizes  in  the  proffered 
morsel  something  unfamiliar,  something  ab- 
solutely unknown  to  all  their  race;  and,  after 
sniffing  at  it,  they  draw  back  as  suspiciously 
as  though  I  had  offered  them  a  mustard-sand- 
wich. It  is  too  new  to  them. 

They  remind  me  of  the  innocent  wonder  of 
my  neighbours,  the  women  of  the  village, 
when  they  pass  in  front  of  the  fishwives'  stalls 
at  Orange  on  market-days.  Here  are  bas- 
kets filled  with  Shell-fish,  others  with  Craw- 
fish, others  with  Sea-urchins. 

"Eh,"  they  ask  one  another,  "are  those 
things  meant  to  be  eaten?  And  how? 
180 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

Roast  or  boiled?  You  wouldn't  catch  me 
tackling  that  stuff." 

And,  vastly  surprised  that  there  should  be 
people  capable  of  making  a  meal  off  anything 
so  loathly,  they  turn  aside  from  the  Sea- 
urchin.  Even  so  do  my  Cat  and  my  Dogs. 
With  them  as  with  ourselves,  exceptional 
food  needs  an  apprenticeship. 

To  the  little  that  he  has  to  say  about  the 
Cossus,  Pliny  adds:  "Etiam  farina  saginati, 
hi  quoque  altiles  sunt,"  which  means  that  the 
worms  were  fattened  with  meal  to  improve 
their  flavour.  The  recipe  startled  me  at 
first,  all  the  more  so  as  the  old  naturalist  is 
much  given  to  this  system  of  fattening.  He 
tells  us  of  one  Fulvius  Hirpinus  who  invented 
the  art  of  rearing  Snails,  so  highly  esteemed 
by  the  gormandizers  of  the  day.  The  herd 
destined  to  be  fattened  were  placed  in  a  park 
surrounded  by  water  to  prevent  escape  and 
furnished  with  earthenware  vases  to  serve  as 
shelters.  Fed  on  a  paste  of  flour  and  syrupy 
wine,  the  Snails  became  enormous.  Not- 
withstanding all  my  respect  for  the  venerable 
naturalist,  I  cannot  believe  that  molluscs 
thrive  so  remarkably  when  put  on  a  diet  of 
flour  and  syrupy  wine.  These  are  childish 
exaggerations,  which  were  inevitable  at  first, 
181 


More  Beetles 

when  the  scientific  spirit  of  research  had  not 
yet  come  into  being.  Pliny  artlessly  repeats 
the  talk  of  the  country  folk  of  his  day. 

I  have  much  the  same  doubts  about  the 
Cossi  that  put  on  flesh  when  fed  with  meal. 
Still,  the  result  is  less  incredible  than  that 
alleged  to  take  place  in  the  Snail-park.  As 
a  scrupulous  observer,  let  me  test  the  method. 
I  put  a  few  grubs  taken  from  the  pines  in  a 
glass  jar  full  of  flour.  They  receive  no 
other  food.  I  expected  to  see  the  larvae, 
smothered  in  that  fine  dust,  dying  quickly, 
either  suffocated  by  the  obstruction  of  their 
air-holes  or  perishing  for  lack  of  suitable 
nourishment. 

Great  was  my  mistake.  Pliny  was  right : 
the  Cossi  thrive  in  the  flour  and  feed  heartily 
on  it.  I  have  before  me  some  that  have 
spent  a  year  in  this  environment.  They  eat 
their  way  through  it,  scooping  out  corridors 
and  leaving  behind  them  a  brown  paste,  the 
waste  product  of  their  digestive  organs. 
That  they  are  actually  fatter  I  cannot  state 
for  a  fact;  but  at  least  they  have  a  magnifi- 
cent appearance,  no  less  imposing  than  that 
of  others  which  were  kept  in  jars  filled  with 
scraps  of  their  native  tree-stumps.  The 
flour  is  amply  sufficient,  if  not  to  fatten  them, 
182 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

at  least  to  keep  them  in  excellent  condition. 

Enough  of  the  Cossus  and  my  crazy 
skewers.  If  I  have  studied  the  question  so 
closely,  it  cettainly  has  not  been  with  .the 
hope  of  enriching  our  bills  of  fare.  No,  that 
was  not  my  object,  even  though  Brillat- 
Savarin1  has  said  that  "the  invention  of  a 
new  dish  is  a  greater  benefit  to  humanity 
than  the  discovery  of  an  asteroid.".  The 
scarcity  of  the  pine-tree's  plump  inhabitants 
and  the  repugnance  with  which  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  us  view  any  sort  of  vermin  will  al- 
ways prevent  my  new  comestible  from  becom- 
ing a  common  article  of  diet.  It  is  probable 
even  that  it  will  remain  a  mere  curiosity, 
which  people  will  take  on  trust  without  veri- 
fying its  qualities.  Not  everybody  has  the 
needful  independence  of  stomach  to  appre- 
ciate the  merits  of  a  worm. 

Still  less,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  was 
the  bait  of  a  dainty  dish  the  motive.  My 
sober  tastes  are  not  easily  tempted.  A  hand- 
ful of  cherries  is  more  to  my  liking  than  all 
the  preparations  of  our  cookery-books.  My 
sole  desire  was  to  throw  light  upon  a  point  of 

1Anthelme  Brillat-Savarin  (1755-1826),  the  famous 
French  gastronomer,  author  of  La  Physiologie  du  gout. — 
Translator's  Note. 

183 


More  Beetles 

natural  history.  Have  I  succeeded?  It 
may  well  be  that  I  have. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  metamorphoses  of 
the  grub;  let  us  strive  to  obtain  the  adult 
form,  so  as  to  determine  the  nature  of  our 
subject,  which  has  hitherto  remained  name- 
less. The  rearing  presents  no  difficulty 
whatever.  I  install  my  plump  larvae, 
straight  from  the  pine-tree,  in  flower-pots  of 
ordinary  size.  I  provide  them  with  a  goodly 
heap  of  scraps  from  their  old  home,  the  tree- 
stump,  choosing  by  preference  the  central 
layers,  which  have  rotted  into  soft  flakes  of 
touchwood. 

The  grubs  creep  in  and  out  of  the  well- 
stocked  refectory  at  their  own  sweet  will; 
they  crawl  lazily  up  and  down  or  stand  still, 
gnawing  all  the  time.  I  need  pay  no  further 
attention  to  them,  provided  the  victuals  re- 
main fresh.  With  this  rough  and  ready 
treat  I  have  kept  them  in  first-rate  condition 
for  a  couple  of  years.  My  boarders  have  all 
the  happy  tranquillity  that  comes  from  an 
untroubled  digestion;  and  they  know  nothing 
of  home-sickness. 

In  the  first  week  of  July,  I  catch  sight  of  a 
grub  wiggling  vigorously,  turning  round  and 
round.  This  exercise  is  to  give  suppleness  in 
184 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

view  of  the  coming  moult.  The  violent 
gymnastics  take  place  in  a  large  apartment  of 
no  special  structure,  without  cement  or  glaze. 
The  big  grub,  by  rolling  its  rump  to  and  fro, 
has  simply  pushed  back  all  around  it  the 
powdery  ligneous  matter  produced  by  its 
crumbled  or  even  digested  provisions.  It 
has  compressed  and  felted  it  together;  and, 
as  I  have  taken  care  to  keep  the  material 
suitably  moist,  it  sets  into  a  fairly  solid  and 
remarkably  smooth  wall.  It  is  a  stucco 
made  of  wood-pulp. 

A  few  days  later,  in  stiflingly  hot  weather, 
the  grub  sheds  its  skin.  The  moult  is  effec- 
ted at  night  and  I  am  therefore  unable  to 
witness  it;  but  next  morning  I  have  the 
newly-divested  clothing  at  my  disposal.  The 
skin  has  been  split  open  on  the  thorax  up  to 
the  first  segment,  which  has  released  itself, 
bringing  the  head  with  it.  Through  this  nar- 
row dorsal  fissure,  the  nymph  has  issued  by 
alternately  stretching  and  contracting,  so 
that  the  cast  skin  forms  a  crumpled  bag, 
which  is  almost  intact. 

On  the  day  of  its  deliverance,  the  nymph 
is  a  magnificent  white,  whiter  than  alabaster, 
whiter  than  ivory.  Add  a  slight  transpar- 
ency to  the  substance  of  our  superfine  stearin 
185 


More  Beetles 

candles  and  you  will  have  something  nearly 
resembling  that  budding  flesh  in  process  of 
crystallization. 

The  arrangement  of  the  limbs  is  faultlessly 
symmetrical.  The  folded  legs  make  one 
think  of  arms  crossed  upon  the  Breast  in  a 
sacerdotal  attitude.  Our  painters  have  no 
better  symbol  for  representing  mystic  res- 
ignation to  the  hand  of  destiny.  Joined  to- 
gether, the  tarsi  form  two  long,  knotted 
cords  that  lie  along  the  nymph's  sides  like  a 
priest's  stole.  The  wings  and  wing-cases, 
fitting  by  pairs  into  a  common  sheath,  are 
flattened  into  wide  paddles  like  flakes  of  talc. 
In  front,  the  antennae  are  bent  into  elegant 
crosiers  and  then  slip  under  the  knees  of  the 
first  pair  of  legs  and  rest  their  tips  on  the 
wing-paddles.  The  sides  of  the  corselet 
project  slightly,  like  a  head-dress  recalling 
the  spreading  white  caps  of  our  French  nuns. 

My  children,  when  I  show  them  this  won- 
derful creature,  find  a  very  happy  phrase  to 
describe  it: 

"It's  a  little  girl  making  her  first  com- 
munion," they  say,  "a  little  girl  in  her  white 
veil." 

What  a  lovely  gem,  if  it  were  permanent 
and  incorruptible!  An  artist  seeking  for  a 
186 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

decorative  subject  would  find  an  exquisite 
model  here.  And  this  gem  moves.  At  the 
least  disturbance,  it  fidgets  about  on  its  back, 
very  much  like  a  Gudgeon  laid  high  and  dry 
on  the  river-bank.  Feeling  itself  in  danger, 
the  terrified  creature  strives  to  make  itself 
terrifying. 

Next  day,  the  nymph  is  clouded  with  a 
faint  smoky  tint.  The  work  of  a  final  trans- 
formation begins  and  is  continued  for  a  fort- 
night. At  last,  towards  the  end  of  July,  the 
nymphal  garment  is  reduced  to  shreds,  torn 
by  the  movements  of  the  stretching  and  wa- 
ving limbs.  The  full-grown  insect  appears, 
clad  in  rusty-red  and  white.  The  colour 
soon  becomes  darker  and  gradually  changes 
to  black.  The  insect  has  completed  its  de- 
velopment. 

I  recognize  it  as  the  naturalists'  Ergates 
faber,  which,  translated  into  the  vernacular, 
means  "the  journeyman  blacksmith."  If 
any  one  knows  why  this  long-horned  Beetle, 
this  lover  of  old  pine-stumps,  is  called  a 
working  blacksmith,  I  will  thank  him  to  tell 
me. 

The  Ergates  is  a  magnificent  insect,  vying 
with  the  Great  Capricorn  in  size,  but  with 
broader  wing-cases  and  a  slightly  flatter  body. 
187 


More  Beetles 

The  male  carries  on  his  corselet  two  broad, 
triangular,  glistening  facets.  These  con- 
stitute his  blazon  and  serve  no  other  purpose 
than  that  of  masculine  adornment. 

I  have  tried  to  observe  by  lantern-light — 
for  the  insect  is  nocturnal  in  its  habits — the 
nuptial  charms  of  the  blazoned  Beetle  of  the 
pines  in  his  native  surroundings.  My  son 
Paul  went  all  over  the  ravaged  plantation, 
lantern  in  hand,  between  ten  and  eleven  at 
night;  he  explored  the  old  stumps  one  by  one. 
The  expedition  led  to  nothing;  no  Ergates 
was  seen,  of  either  sex.  We  need  not  regret 
this  failure:  by  rearing  the  insects  in  the 
cages  we  learn  the  most  interesting  details  of 
the  business. 

I  take  the  Beetles  born  in  my  study  and 
install  them,  in  isolated  couples,  under  spa- 
cious wire-gauze  dish-covers  placed  over 
stacks  of  refuse  from  the  decayed  pine- 
stumps.  By  way  of  food,  I  serve  them  with 
pears  cut  into  quarters,  small  bunches  of 
grapes  and  slices  of  melon,  all  favourite 
dainties  of  the  Great  Capricorn. 

The  captives  rarely  show  themselves  by 
day;  they  remain  concealed  under  the  heap 
of  chips.  They  come  out  at  night  and  sol- 
emnly stroll  to  and  fro,  now  on  the  wire 
188 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

trellis,  now  on  the  pile  of  wood  that  rep- 
resents the  pine-stump  to  which  they  must 
hasten  when  the  egg-laying  season  arrives. 
Never  do  they  touch  the  provisions,  though 
these  are  kept  fresh  by  almost  daily  re- 
newals; never  do  they  nibble  at  the  fruit,  at 
the  dainties  in  which  the  Capricorn  delights. 
They  scorn  to  eat. 

Worse  still:  apparently  they  disdain  to 
pair.  I  watch  them  every  evening  for  nearly 
a  month.  What  melancholy  lovers !  There 
is  no  eagerness  on  the  part  of  the  male,  no 
impetuous  hurry  to  woo  his  mate;  no  teasing 
on  the  part  of  the  female  to  stimulate  her 
backward  swain.  Each  shuns  the  other's 
company;  and,  when  they  do  meet,  they 
merely  maim  each  other.  Under  all  my 
wire  covers,  five  in  number,  sooner  or  later 
I  find  either  the  male  or  the  female,  some- 
times both,  the  poorer  by  a  few  legs  or  one  or 
both  antennae.  The  cut  is  so  clean  that  it 
might  be  the  work  of  a  pruning-shears.  The 
sharp  edge  of  the  mandibles,  which  are 
shaped  like  cleavers,  explains  this  hacking. 
I  myself,  if  I  get  my  fingers  caught,  am  bitten 
till  the  blood  comes. 

What  kind  of  creatures  are  these,  among 
whom  the  sexes  cannot  meet  without  mutilat- 
189 


More  Beetles 

ing  each  other,  these  savages  with  their  fe- 
rocious embraces,  whose  caresses  are  sheer 
mangling!  For  blows  to  be  exchanged  be- 
tween males,  in  the  fierce  brawl  for  the  pos- 
session of  the  bride,  is  an  everyday  occur- 
rence :  it  is  the  rule  among  the  greater  part 
of  the  animal  creation.  But  here  the  female 
herself  is  sorely  ill-treated,  perhaps  after 
having  been  the  first  to  begin. 

"Ah,  you've  damaged  my  plume!"  says 
the  journeyman  blacksmith.  "All  right,  I'll 
break  your  leg  for  you.  Take  that  1" 

More  reprisals  follow.  The  shears  are 
brought  into  action  on  either  side,  and  the 
fight  produces  a  pair  of  cripples. 

If  the  housing  were  inadequate,  one  could 
put  down  this  brutality  to  the  terrified  hust- 
ling of  a  mob  of  maddened  creatures;  but  one 
can  no  longer  do  so  when  a  roomy  cage  leaves 
the  two  captives  ample  space  for  their  noctur- 
nal rambles.  They  lack  nothing  in  the  wire 
dome  but  liberty  of  flight.  Could  this  dep- 
rivation tend  to  embitter  their  character? 
How  far  removed  are  they  from  the  Common 
Capricorn!  He,  though  he  form  one  of  a 
dozen  huddled  under  the  same  dish-cover,  for 
a  month  on  end,  without  any  neighbours' 
quarrel,  bestrides  his  companion,  and,  from 
190 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

time  to  time,  caresses  her  with  a  lick  of  his 
tongue  on  her  back.  Other  people,  other 
customs.  I  know  one  who  rivals  the  insect 
of  the  pines  in  that  barbarous  propensity  for 
mutilating  its  fellows.  This  is  the  JEgo- 
soma  (M.  scabricorne,  FAB.),  who  likewise 
is  a  lover  of  darkness  and  sports  a  pair  of 
long  horns.  His  grub  lives  in  the  wood  of 
old  willows  hollow  with  age.  The  adult  is 
a  handsome  insect,  attired  in  bright  brown 
and  bearing  a  pair  of  very  fierce  antennae. 
With  the  Capricorn  and  Ergates,  he  is  the 
most  noteworthy  of  all  the  Longicorns  in  the 
matter  of  size. 

In  July,  at  about  eleven  o'clock  on  a  warm, 
still  night,  I  find  him  crouching  flat  on  the 
inside  of  the  cavernous  willows  or  oftener  on 
the  outside,  on  the  rough  bark  of  the  trunk. 
The  males  occur  pretty  frequently.  Motion- 
less, undismayed  by  the  sudden  flashes  of  my 
lantern,  they  await  the  coming  of  the  females 
lurking  in  the  deep  crevices  of  the  decayed 
wood. 

The  ^Egosoma  also  is  armed  with  power- 
ful shears,  with  mandibular  cleavers  which 
are  very  useful  to  the  new-formed  adult  for 
hewing  a  way  out,  but  which  become  a  crying 
abuse  among  insects  of  the  same  family, 
191 


More  Beetles 

when  addicted  to  chopping  off  each  other's 
legs  and  antennae.  If  I  do  not  isolate  my 
subjects  one  by  one  in  strong  paper  bags,  I 
am  certain,  on  returning  from  my  nocturnal 
expeditions,  to  find  none  but  cripples  in  my 
box.  The  mandibular  knife  has  done  furi- 
ous execution  on  the  way.  Almost  all  the 
insects  are  the  poorer  by  at  least  a  leg. 

In  the  wire  cage,  with  chips  of  old  willow- 
wood  for  a  refuge  and  figs,  pears  and  other 
fruits  for  food,  they  are  less  intolerant. 
For  three  or  four  days,  my  captives  betray 
great  excitement  at  nightfall.  They  run 
swiftly  along  the  trellised  dome,  quarrelling 
as  they  go,  hiring  one  another,  striking  at 
one  another  with  their  cleavers.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  females,  almost  undiscoverable  at 
the  time  of  my  visits,  which  are  possibly  not 
late  enough,  I  have  not  been  able  to  observe 
their  nuptials;  but  I  have  seen  acts  of  brutal- 
ity that  tell  me  something  of  what  I  want  to 
know.  No  less  expert  in  chopping  off  legs 
than  his  kinsman  of  the  pines,  the  ^Egosoma 
should  also  be  somewhat  deficient  in  gallan- 
try. I  picture  him  beating  his  wife  and  crip- 
pling her  a  little,  not  without  himself  receiv- 
ing his  share  of  wounds. 

If  these  were  Longicorn  affairs,  the  scan- 
192 


The  Ergates;  the  Cossus 

dal  would  not  be  far-reaching;  but,  alas,  we 
also  have  our  domestic  quarrels!  The 
Beetle  explains  his  by  his  nocturnal  habits: 
the  light  makes  for  milder  manners ;  the  dark- 
ness tends  to  deprave  them.  The  result  is 
worse  when  the  soul  is  in  darkness;  and  the 
lout  who  thrashes  his  wife  is  a  child  of  the 
gloom. 


193 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   PINE   COCKCHAFER 

IN  writing  Pine  Cockchafer  at  the  head  of 
this  chapter,  I  am  guilty  of  a  deliberate 
heresy:  the  insect's  orthodox  name  is  Fuller 
Cockchafer  (Melolontha  fullo,  LIN.).  We 
must  not  be  fastidious,  I  know,  in  matters  of 
nomenclature.  Make  a  noise  of  some  sort, 
give  it  a  Latin  termination  and  you  will  have, 
as  far  as  euphony  goes,  the  equivalent  of 
many  of  the  labels  pasted  in  the  entomolo- 
gist's specimen-boxes.  The  cacophony  would 
be  excusable  if  the  barbarous  expression  signi- 
fied nothing  else  than  the  creature  intended; 
but,  generally  speaking,  this  name  possesses, 
hidden  among  its  Greek  or  other  roots,  a  cer- 
tain meaning  in  which  the  novice  hopes  to 
find  a  little  information. 

He  will  be  woefully  disappointed.  The 
scientific  term  refers  to  subtleties  difficult  to 
grasp  and  of  very  slight  importance.  Too 
often  it  leads  him  astray,  suggesting  views 
which  have  naught  in  common  with  the  truth 
194 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

as  we  know  it  from  observation.  Sometimes 
the  errors  are  flagrant;  sometimes  the  al- 
lusions are  grotesque  and  imbecile.  Pro- 
vided that  they  have  a  decent  sound,  how 
greatly  preferable  are  locutions  in  which  en- 
tomology finds  nothing  to  dissect! 

Fullo  would  be  one  of  these,  if  the  word 
had  not  a  first  sense  which  at  once  occurs  to 
the  mind.  This  Latin  expression  means  a 
"fuller,"  one  who  "fulls"  cloth  under  run- 
ning water,  dressing  it  and  ridding  it  of  the 
stiffness  of  the  weaving.  What  connection 
has  the  Cockchafer  who  forms  the  subject  of 
this  chapter  with  the  working  fuller?  You 
may  rack  your  brains  in  vain :  no  acceptable 
answer  will  come. 

The  term  fullo,  applied  to  an  insect,  oc- 
curs in  Pliny.  In  one  chapter  the  igreat 
naturalist  treats  of  remedies  for  jaundice, 
fevers  and  dropsy.  A  little  of  everything 
plays  its  part  in  this  pharmacopoeia:  a  black 
Dog's  longest  tooth;  a  Mouse's  nose 
wrapped  in  a  pink  rag;  a  green  Lizard's  right 
eye  torn  from  the  living  reptile  and  placed 
in  a  kid-skin  bag;  a  Snake's  heart,  torn  out 
with  the  left  hand;  the  four  joints  of  a  Scor- 
pion's tail,  including  the  sting,  wrapped  up 
in  a  black  cloth,  provided  that  for  three  days 
195 


More  Beetles 

the  patient  can  see  neither  the  remedy  nor 
him  that  applied  it;  and  many  other  extrav- 
agances. We  close  the  book,  alarmed  by 
the  slough  of  absurdities  whence  the  art  of 
healing  has  come  down  to  us. 

In  this  medley  of  inanities,  the  forerunner 
of  medicine,  the  fuller  makes  his  appearance. 
The  text  says : 

"Tertium  qul  vocatur  fullo,  albis  guttis, 
dissectum  utrique  lacerto  adalligant." 

To  treat  fevers,  we  must  divide  the  Ful- 
ler Beetle  into  two  parts  and  fasten  one  half 
to  the  right  arm  and  the  other  half  to  the 
left. 

Now  what  did  the  ancient  naturalist  mean 
by  this  term  Fuller  Beetle?  We  do  not 
know  exactly.  The  description  albis  guttis, 
white  spots,  would  fit  the  white-flecked  Pine- 
chafer  pretty  well,  but  it  is  not  enough  to 
make  us  certain.  Pliny  himself  seems  to 
have  been  none  too  sure  of  his  wonderful 
cure.  In  his  time,  men's  eyes  had  not  yet 
learnt  how  to  look  at  the  insect.  The  crea- 
tures were  too  small;  they  were  fit  amuse- 
ment for  children,  who  would  tie  them  to 
the  end  of  a  long  thread  and  make  them  run 
196 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

round  in  a  circle,  but  they  were  unworthy  the 
attention  of  a  self-respecting  man. 

Pliny  apparently  got  the  word  from  the 
country-folk,  always  poor  observers  and  in- 
clined to  bestow  extravagant  names.  The 
scholar  accepted  the  rustic  locution,  the  work 
perhaps  of  a  childish  imagination,  and  ap- 
plied it  as  a  makeshift,  without  further  en- 
quiries. The  word  has  come  down  to  us  a 
fragment  of  antiquity;  our  modern  natural- 
ists have  adopted  it;  and  this  is  how  one  of 
our  handsomest  insects  became  the  Fuller. 
The  majesty  of  the  centuries  has  consecrated 
the  strange  appellation. 

In  spite  of  all  my  respect  for  ancient  lan- 
guages, the  term  Fuller  does  not  appeal  to 
me  because  in  the  circumstances  it  is  non- 
sensical. Common  sense  should  take  pre- 
cedence of  the  aberrations  of  nomenclature. 
Why  not  say  Pine  Cockchafer,  in  memory  of 
the  beloved  tree,  the  paradise  of  the  insect 
during  the  two  or  three  weeks  of  its  aerial 
life?  It  would  be  very  simple;  nothing 
could  be  more  natural:  a  very  good  reason 
for  putting  it  last  of  all. 

We  have  to  wander  a  long  time  in  the 
night  of  absurdity  before  reaching  the  radi- 
197 


More  Beetles 

ant  light  of  truth.  All  our  sciences  bear 
witness  to  this,  even  the  science  of  number. 
Try  to  add  a  column  of  figures  written  in 
Roman  numerals :  you  will  abandon  the  task, 
stupefied  by  the  confusion  of  the  symbols, 
and  you  will  realize  how  great  a  revolution 
was  made  in  arithmetic  by  the  invention  of 
the  figure  nought.  Like  the  egg  of  Colum- 
bus, it  was  indeed  a  very  small  thing,  but  it 
had  to  be  thought  of. 

Until  the  future  casts  the  unfortunate  Ful- 
ler into  oblivion,  we  will  say  Pine  Cock- 
chafer, so  far  as  we  are  concerned.  Using 
this  name,  no  one  can  make  a  mistake:  our 
insect  frequents  the  pine-tree  only.  It  has 
a  handsome  and  portly  appearance,  vying 
with  that  of  Oryctes  nasicornis.1  Its  cos- 
tume, though  not  boasting  the  metallic 
splendour  dear  to  the  Carabus,2  the  Bupre- 
stis,3  and  the  Cetonia,  is  at  least  unusually 
elegant.  A  black  or  brown  ground  is  thickly 
strewn  with  capricious  spots  of  white  velvet. 
It  is  at  the  same  time  modest  and  magnificent. 

By  way  of  plumes,  the  male  wears  at  the 

iThe    Rhinoceros    Beetle.     Cf.    The    Glow-worm    and 
Other  Beetles:    chap.   xiii. — Translator's   Note. 

2  Cf.  Chapters  xiii.  and  xiv.  of  the  present  volume. — 
Translator's  Note. 

3  Cf.     The  Glo<w-<worm  and  Other  Beetles:  chaps,  viii. 
and  xiv. — {Translator's  Note. 

198 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

end  of  his  short  antennae  seven  large  super- 
posed leaves,  which,  opening  and  closing  like 
a  fan,  betray  the  emotions  of  the  moment. 
At  first  sight  one  would  take  this  superb  foli- 
age for  a  sense-organ  of  great  perfection, 
Capable  of  perceiving  subtle  odours,  almost 
inaudible  waves  of  sound  or  other  means  of 
information  unknown  to  our  senses;  but  the 
female  warns  us  not  to  go  too  far  in  this 
direction.  Her  maternal  duties  demand 
that  she  should  possess  a  susceptibility  to 
impressions  at  least  as  great  as  that  of  the 
other  sex;  and  yet  her  antennary  plumes  are 
very  small  and  consist  of  six  niggardly  leaves. 

Then  what  is  the  use  of  the  male's  enor- 
mous fan?  The  seven-leaved  apparatus  is 
to  the  Pine-chafer  what  his  long,  quivering 
horns  are  to  the  Capricorn  and  the  panoply 
of  the  forehead  to  the  Onthophagus  and  the 
forked  antlers  of  the  mandibles  to  the  Stag- 
beetle.  Each  decks  himself  in  his  own  fash- 
ion with  nuptial  extravagances. 

The  handsome  Cockchafer  appears  at  the 
summer  solstice,  almost  simultaneously  with 
the  first  Cicada?.1  His  punctual  advent  gives 
him  a  place  in  the  entomological  calendar, 

1  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:  chaps,  .i  to  v. — 
Translator's  Note. 

199 


More  Beetles 

which  is  no  less  regular  than  that  of  the 
seasons.  When  the  longest  days  come,  those 
days  which  seem  endless  and  gild  the  harvest, 
he  never  fails  to  hurry  to  his  tree.  The 
Midsummer  bonfires,  reminiscent  of  the 
festivals  of  the  sun,  which  the  children  kindle 
in  the  village  streets,  are  no  more  punctual  in 
date.  At  this  season,  every  evening,  in  the 
gloaming,  if  the  weather  be  still,  the  Cock- 
chafer comes  to  visit  the  pine-trees  in  the  en- 
closure. I  follow  his  evolutions  with  my  eyes. 
With  a  silent,  impetuous  flight,  the  males 
especially  veer  to  and  fro,  displaying  their 
great  antennary  plumes;  they  make  for  the 
branches  where  the  females  await  them;  they 
fly  back  and  forth,  visible  as  dark  streaks 
against  the  pallor  of  the  sky,  from  which  the 
last  remnants  of  daylight  are  fading.  They 
settle,  take  flight  again  and  resume  their  busy 
rounds.  What  do  they  do  up  there,  evening 
after  evening,  during  the  fortnight  of  the 
festival? 

The  thing  is  evident:  they  are  wooing  the 
ladies  and  they  continue  to  pay  their  respects 
until  night  has  fallen.  Next  morning,  both 
males  and  females  commonly  occupy  the 
lower  Branches.  They  lie  singly  motionless, 
indifferent  to  passing  events.  They  do  not 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

avoid  the  hand  put  out  to  seize  them. 
Hanging  by  their  hind-legs,  most  of  them 
nibbling  a  pine-needle,  they  slumber  drowsily, 
with  the  morsel,  in  their  mouths.  When 
twilight  returns,  they  resume  their  frolics. 

To  watch  these  frolics  in  the  tops  of  the 
trees  is  hardly  possible;  let  us  try  to  watch 
them  in  captivity.  I  collect  four  couples 
in  the  morning  and  place  them  in  a  roomy 
cage,  with  a  few  twigs  of  pine.  The  spec- 
tacle hardly  comes  up  to  my  expectations. 
This  is  because  they  are  deprived  of  the 
power  of  flight.  At  most,  from  time  to 
time,  a  male  approaches  his  coveted  bride; 
he  spreads  the  leaves  of  his  antennae  and 
shakes  them  with  a  slight  quiver,  perhaps  to 
discover  if  he  is  welcome;  he  shows  off, 
exhibiting  his  antlered  beauty.  It  is  a  use- 
less display:  the  female  does  not  budge,  as 
though  insensible  to  these  demonstrations. 
Captivity  has  sorrows  that  are  hard  to  over- 
come. More  than  this  I  could  not  see. 
Pairing,  it  seems,  must  take  place  during  the 
later  hours  of  the  night,  so  that  I  have  missed 
the  propitious  moment. 

One  detail  in  particular  interested  me. 
The  Pine-chafer  possesses  a  musical  instru- 
ment. Male  and  female  are  similarly 


More  Beetles 

gifted.  Does  the  suitor  make  use  of  his 
faculty  as  a  means  of  seduction  and  appeal? 
Does  the  other  answer  her  lover's  strophe 
with  a  similar  strophe?  That  this  happens 
under  normal  conditions,  amidst  the 
branches,  is  highly  probable;  but  I  should  not 
care  to  say  so  for  certain,  having  never  heard 
anything  of  the  kind  among  the  pine-trees  or 
in  the  cage. 

The  sound  is  produced  by  the  tip  of  the 
abdomen,  which,  with  a  gentle  movement, 
alternately  rises  and  falls,  rubbing  its  rear- 
most segments  against  the  hinder  edge  of  the 
wing-cases,  which  are  held  motionless. 
There  is  no  special  appliance  on  the  rubbing 
surface  nor  on  the  surface  rubbed.  The 
magnifying-glass  searches  in  vain  for  minute 
ridges  such  as  might  produce  a  note.  On 
either  hand  all  is  smooth.  How  then  is  the 
sound  produced? 

Moisten  the  tip  of  a  finger  and  run  it  over 
a  strip  of  glass,  over  a  window-pane:  you 
will  obtain  a  fairly  well-sustained  sound,  not 
unlike  that  emitted  by  the  Cockchafer. 
Better  still :  use  a  bit  of  india-rubber  to  rub 
the  glass  with  and  you  will  obtain  a  pretty 
faithful  reproduction  of  the  noise  made  by 
the  insect.  If  the  musical  rhythm  is  well 

202 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

preserved,  the  imitation  might  deceive  any- 
body. 

Well,  in  the  Cockchafer's  apparatus,  the 
pad  of  the  finger-tip  and  the  bit  of  india- 
rubber  are  represented  by  the  softness  of  the 
moving  abdomen  and  the  window-pane  by 
the  plate  of  the  wing-cases,  a  thin,  rigid 
plate  eminently  capable  of  vibration.  The 
Cockchafer's  musical  instrument  is  thus  one 
of  the  simplest. 

A  small  number  of  other  Beetles  are  en- 
dowed with  the  same  privilege.  These  in- 
clude the  Spanish  Copris  and  the  truffle-eat- 
ing Bolboceras.1  Both  make  a  sound  by 
means  of  slight  oscillation?  of  the  abdomen, 
which  gently  grazes  the  hinder  edge  of  the 
wing-cases. 

The  Cerambyx-beetles  have  another 
method,  likewise  based  on  friction.  The 
Great  Capricorn,  for  instance,  moves  his 
corselet  over  its  junction  with  the  thorax. 
There  is  here  a  large  cylindrical  projection 
which  fits  tightly  into  the  cavity  of  the 
corselet  and  forms  a  joint  which  is  at  the 
same  time  powerful  and  mobile.  This  pro- 
jection is  surmounted  by  a  convex  surface, 

1  For  this  Beetle  cf.  The  Life  of  the  Fly:  chap,  xviii. — 
Translator's  Note. 

203 


More  Beetles 

shaped  like  an  heraldic  scutcheon,  perfectly 
smooth  and  absolutely  devoid  of  any  sort  of 
fluting.  This  is  the  musical-box. 

The  edge  of  the  corselet,  itself  smooth  in- 
side, rubs  over  this  surface,  passing  to  and 
fro  with  a  rhythmical  movement  and  thus 
creating  a  sound  which  is  once  more  like  that 
of  a  window-pane  rubbed  with  a  moistened 
finger.  Still,  I  am  unable  to  make  the  dead 
insect's  apparatus  sound  by  moving  the  corse- 
let myself.  Though  I  hear  nothing,  I  at 
least  feel  with  my  moving  fingers  the  shrill 
vibration  of  the  surfaces  rubbed.  A  little 
more  and  the  sound  would  be  audible. 
What  is  lacking?  The  stroke  of  the  bow 
which  the  live  insect  alone  is  able  to  supply. 

We  find  the  same  mechanism  in  the  small 
Capricorn,  Cerambyx  cerdo,1  and  in  the 
denizen  of  the  willows,  the  Rose-scented 
Aromia,  A.  moschata.2  On  the  other  hand, 
the  ./Egosoma  and  Ergates,  mighty  Longi- 
corns  both,  are  without  the  projection  fitting 
into  the  corselet,  or  rather  possess  of  it 
only  as  much  as  is  strictly  necessary  to  join 

1  Cf.  The  Glow-worm  and  Other  Beetles:  chap.  viii. — 
Translator's  Note. 

2  Also  known  as  the  Musk  Beetle.     The  insect  emits  a 
strong  smell  of  musk  and  is  found  crawling  on  decaying 
willows. — Translator's  Note. 

204 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

the  two  parts  together.  Consequently  the 
two  big  night-insects  are  dumb. 

Though  we  are  acquainted  with  the  simple 
mechanism  of  the  Cockchafer's  instrument, 
its  employment  none  the  less  remains  a  rid- 
dle. Does  the  insect  use  it  as  a  means  of 
nuptial  appeal?  This  is  likely.  Neverthe- 
less, I  have  not  heard  the  slightest  grating  on 
the  pines,  in  spite  of  all  my  attention  at  pro- 
pitious hours.  I  have  heard  nothing  either 
in  the  cages,  where  distance  formed  no  ob- 
stacle to  the  hearing. 

If  we  would  make  the  Cockchafer  squeak, 
all  that  we  need  do  is  to  take  him  in  our 
fingers  and  tease  him  a  little.  The  sound 
box  works  at  once  and  does  not  cease  until 
we  do.  What  we  now  hear  is  not  a  song  but 
a  complaint,  a  protest  against  misfortune. 
It  is  a  singular  world  in  which  sorrow  is 
translated  by  couplets  and  joy  by  silence. 

The  other  scrapers  of  the  abdomen  or 
corselet  behave  in  like  fashion.  When  sur- 
prised upon  her  pills,  at  the  bottom  of  her 
burrow,  the  mother  Copris  groans,  for  a 
moment,  bewailing  her  fate :  the  Bolboceras, 
held  captive  in  the  hand,  protests  with  a 
gentle  elegy;  the  Capricorn  when  caught  sets 
up  a  desperate  grating.  All  are  mute  as 
205 


More  Beetles 

soon  as  the  danger  is  past;  all  likewise  per- 
sist in  their  silence  when  absolutely  at  rest. 
I  never  knew  any  of  the  three  to  sound  his 
instrument  apart  from  the  alarm  to  which  I 
subjected  them. 

Others,  supplied  with  highly  improved 
instruments,  sing  to  beguile  their  solitude,  to 
summon  each  other  to  the  wedding,  to  cele- 
brate the  joys  of  life  and  the  festival  of  the 
sunshine.  Most  of  these  singers  are  mute 
in  a  moment  of  danger.  At  the  least  disturb- 
ance, the  Decticus1  shuts  up  his  musical  box 
and  veils  his  dulcimer,  on  whose  notes  he  was 
playing  with  his  bow;  the  Cricket2  furls  the 
wings  which  were  vibrating  above  his  back. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Cicada  raises  a  des- 
perate outcry  in  our  fingers;  and  the  Ephip- 
piges 3  bemoans  his  fate  in  a  minor  key. 
Sorrows  and  joys  are  translated  into  the  same 
tongue,  so  that  it  becomes  difficult  to  say  for 
what  exact  purpose  the  stridulating  organ  is 
intended.  When  left  in  peace,  does  the  in- 
sect actually  celebrate  its  happiness?  When 
teased,  does  it  bewail  its  misfortune?  Does 

1  Cf.    The  Life   of   the   Grasshopper:   Chaps,   xii.   and 
xiii. — Translator's   Note. 

2Cf.   idem:   chaps,  xv.   and  xvi. — Translator's   Note. 

3Cf.  idem:  chaps,  xiii.  and  xiv. — Translator's  Note. 

206 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

it  try  to  overawe  its  enemies  with  noise? 
Could  the  sound-apparatus,  at  the  requisite 
moment  be  a  means  of  defence  or  intimida- 
tion? If  the  Capricorn  and  the  Cicada 
made  a  sound  when  in  danger,  then  why  are 
the  Decticus  and  the  Cricket  silent? 

After  all,  we  know  next  to  nothing  of  the 
determining  causes  of  insect  phonetics.  We 
know  very  little  more  of  the  sounds  per- 
ceived. Do  the  insect's  ears  catch  the  same 
sounds  as  ours  do?  Is  it  sensible,  in  partic- 
ular, to  what  we  call  musical  sounds  ?  With- 
out, I  may  say,  any  hope  of  solving  this  ob- 
scure problem,  I  tried  an  experiment  which 
is  worth  relating.  One  of  my  readers,  filled 
with  enthusiasm  for  what  my  animals  taught 
him,  sent  me  a  musical  box  from  Geneva, 
hoping  that  it  might  be  useful  to  me  in  my 
acoustic  researches.  And  it  really  was  so. 
Let  me  tell  the  story.  It  will  give  me  the 
opportunity  of  thanking  the  kind  sender  of 
the  present. 

The  little  musical-box  has  a  fairly  varied 
selection  of  pieces,  all  translated  into  notes 
of  crystal  clearness  which  should,  to  my 
thinking,  attract  the  attention  of  an  insect 
audience.  One  of  the  tunes  best  suited  to  my 
207 


More  Beetles 

plans  is  that  from  Les  Cloches  de  Corneville. 
With  this  lure  shall  I  secure  the  attention  of 
a  Cockchafer,  a  Capricorn  or  a  Cricket? 

I  begin  with  a  Capricorn,  the  little  Ceram- 
byx  cerdo.  I  seize  the  moment  when  he  is 
courting  his  mate  at  a  distance.  With  his 
delicate  antennae  extended  motionless,  he 
seems  to  be  making  enquiries.  Now,  melodi- 
ously, Les  Cloches  de  Corneville  ring  out : 
ding-dong-ding-dong.  The  insect's  medita- 
tive posture  is  unchanged.  There  is  not  the 
least  tremor,  not  the  least  inflexion  of  the 
antennae,  the  organs  of  hearing.  I  renew  the 
attempt,  altering  the  hour  and  the  degree  of 
daylight.  My  experiments  are  useless :  there 
is  not  a  movement  of  the  antennae  to  denote 
that  the  insect  pays  the  least  attention  to  my 
music. 

The  same  result,  with  the  Pine-chafer, 
whose  antennary  leaves  retain  exactly  the 
same  position  as  when  all  was  silent;  the 
same  result  with  the  Cricket,  whose  tiny,  out- 
stretched, thread-like  antennae  should  vibrate 
easily  under  the  impact  of  the  sound-waves. 
My  three  subjects  are  absolutely  indifferent 
to  my  methods  of  exciting  emotion :  not  one 
of  them  gives  a  hint  of  feeling  any  impres- 
sion whatever. 

208 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

Years  ago,  a  mortar  thundering  under  the 
plane-tree  in  which  the  orchestra  of  the 
Cicadae  *  was  performing  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment interrupt  or  otherwise  affect  their  con- 
cert: at  a  later  date,  the  hullabaloo  of  a 
holiday  crowd  and  the  crackling  of  fireworks 
let  off  close  by  failed  to  disturb  the  geometry 
of  a  Garden  Spider  working  at  her  web,2  to- 
day, the  limpid  tinkle  of  Les  Cloches  de 
Corneville  leaves  the  insect  profoundly  in- 
different, in  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  judge. 
Are  we  to  infer  deafness?  That  would  be 
going  a  great  deal  too  far. 

These  experiments  merely  justify  our 
opinion  that  the  insect's  acoustics  are  not 
ours,  even  as  the  optics  of  its  faceted  eyes  are 
not  to  be  compared  with  those  of  our  own. 
A  mechanical  toy,  the  microphone,  hears — if 
I  be  permitted  to  say  so — that  which  to  us  is 
silence;  it  would  not  hear  a  mighty  uproar; 
it  would  be  thrown  out  of  gear  and  work  im- 
perfectly if  subjected  to  the  din  of  thunder. 
What  of  the  insect,  another,  even  more  deli- 
cate toy !  It  knows  nothing  of  our  sounds, 

1  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:  chap.  iv. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

2  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Spider,  by  J.  Henri  Fabre,  trans- 
lated  by  Alexander    Teixeira     de    Mattos:    chap.    x. — 
Translator's  Note. 

20Q 


More  Beetles 

whether  musical  notes  or  noises.  It  has 
those  of  its  own  little  world,  apart  from 
which  other  sound-waves  possess  no  value. 

In  the  first  fortnight  of  July,  the  male 
Pine-chafers  observed  in  the  vivarium  with- 
draw to  one  side,  sometimes  bury  themselves 
and  die  quite  peacefully,  killed  by  age.  The 
mothers,  on  the  other  hand,  busy  themselves 
with  laying  their  eggs,  or,  more  accurately, 
with  sowing  them.  They  poke  the  soil  with 
the  tip  of  their  abdomen,  shaped  like  a  blunt 
ploughshare,  sinking  into  it  sometimes  al- 
together, sometimes  to  their  shoulders. 
The  eggs,  to  the  number  of  a  score,  are  laid 
separately,  one  by  one,  in  little  round  cavities 
the  size  of  a  pea.  They  receive  no  further 
attention.  They  are  positively  dibbled  into 
the  ground. 

This  method  recalls  the  arachis,  the 
African1  Leguminosa,  which  curls  its  floral 
peduncles  and  thrusts  its  oleaginous  seeds 
with  their  nutty  flavour,  underground  to 
germinate.  It  reminds  us  too  of  a  plant  of 

1 1  do  not  wish  to  correct  the  author;  but  I  find  that 
all  the  books  of  reference  in  my  possession  describe  the 
pea-nut  (Arachis  hypogea)  as  a  native  of  Brazil  and  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  African,  in  the  French  edition, 
may  be  a  misprint  for  American. — Translator1!  Note, 

210 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

my  own  country-side,  the  subterranean  or 
double-fruited  vetch  (Vicia  amphicarpos, 
DORTH.),  which  produces  two  sorts  of  pods, 
the  first  above  ground,  containing  numerous 
seeds,  the  second  under  the  surface,  contain- 
ing large  seeds,  usually  no  more  than  two  in 
number.  For  that  matter  the  two  kinds  are 
equal  in  value  and  give  a  similar  yield. 

Let  the  soil  be  moistened  and  everything 
is  ready  for  the  germination;  the  preliminary 
sowing  has  been  done  by  the  vetch  and  the 
arachis  themselves.  Here  the  plant  vies 
with  the  animal  in  maternal  cares :  the  Pine- 
chafer  does  no  more  than  the  two  Legu- 
monosae.  She  sows  in  the  ground  and  that  is 
all,  absolutely  all.  How  far  removed  we 
are  from  the  Minotaur,  so  careful  of  her 
family! 

The  eggs,  ovoids  blunted  at  either  end, 
measure  four  to  five  millimetres1  in  length. 
They  are  a  dull  white,  firm  to  the  touch,  as 
though  supplied  with  a  chalky  shell  copied 
from  that  of  a  Hen's  egg.  This  appearance 
is  deceptive:  what  remains  after  the  hatch- 
ing is  a  delicate,  flexible,  translucent  mem- 
brane. The  chalky  look  is  due  to  the  con- 

1 .156  to  .195   inch. — Translator's  Note. 
211 


More  Beetles 

tents,  which  show  through.  The  hatching 
takes  place  in  the  middle  of  August,  a  month 
after  the  laying. 

How  shall  I  feed  the  grubs  and  watch 
them  take  their  first  mouthfuls?  I  go  by 
what  I  have  learnt  from  the  spots  frequented 
by  the  grown  larvae.  I  make  a  mixture  of 
moist  sand  and  the  fine  detritus  of  any  leaves 
whatever  browned  with  decay.  The  new- 
born grubs  thrive  in  this  environment:  I  see 
them  opening  short  galleries  here  and  there, 
seizing  on  decayed  particles  and  devouring 
them  with  every  sign  of  satisfaction,  so  much 
so  that,  if  I  had  the  leisure  to  continue  this 
rearing  for  the  three  or  four  years  required, 
I  should  certainly  obtain  larvae  ripe  for 
transformation. 

But  there  is  no  need  to  waste  my  time  in 
rearing  them  thus :  by  digging  in  the  fields  I 
obtain  the  fully  developed  grub.  It  is  mag- 
nificently fat,  bent  into  a  hook,  a  creamy 
white  in  front  and  an  earthy  brown  behind, 
because  of  the  wallet  in  which  it  hoards  the 
stercoral  treasure  destined  later  to  plaster 
and  cement  the  cell  in  which  the  nymphosis 
will  take  place.  All  these  hook-shaped 
wallet-bearers,  Oryctes-  and  Cetonia-larvae, 


The  Pine  Cockchafer 

Cockchafer-  and  Anoxia-grubs,  are  hoarders 
of  faecal  matter:  they  reserve  in  their  brown 
paunches  the  wherewithal  to  build  themselves 
a  lodging  when  the  time  comes. 

I  collect  my  fat  grubs  in  a  sandy  soil, 
where  lean  grass-tufts  grow,  at  a  great  dis- 
tance from  any  resinous  tree  except  the  cy- 
press, which  the  adult  insect  does  not  visit. 
The  Cockchafer,  therefore,  after  her  regu- 
lation frolics  on  the  pines,  came  to  this  place 
from  afar  to  lay  her  eggs.  She  feeds  fru- 
gally on  pine-needles;  her  larva  calls  for  the 
remnants  of  any  leaves  softened  by  under- 
ground putrefaction.  This  is  why  the  nup- 
tial paradise  is  deserted. 

The  larva  of  the  Common  Cockchafer,  the 
White  Worm,  a  voracious  nibbler  of  tender 
roots,  is  the  scourge  of  our  crops;  that  of  the 
Pine  Cockchafer  seems  to  me  to  work  hardly 
any  havoc.  Decayed  rootlets,  decomposing 
vegetable  remains,  are  all  that  it  needs.  As 
to  the  adults,  they  browse  upon  the  green 
pine-needles,  without  abusing  their  privilege. 
If  I  were  a  land-owner,  I  should  not  trouble 
my  head  about  their  devastations.  A  few 
mouthfuls  taken  from  the  immense  store  of 
leaves,  a  few  pine-needles  robbed  of  their 
213 


More  Beetles 

points,  are  not  a  serious  matter.  Let  us  leave 
the  Pine  Cockchafer  alone.  He  is  an  orna- 
ment of  the  balmy  twilight,  a  pretty  jewel 
of  the  summer  solstice. 


214 


CHAPTER     X 

THE   VEGETARIAN   INSECTS 

ALONE  of  living  creatures,  civilized  man 
knows  how  to  eat,  by  which  I  mean  to 
say  that  he  treats  the  affairs  of  the  stomach 
with  a  certain  pomp  and  circumstance.  He 
is  an  expert  cook  and  an  artist  in  delicate 
sauces.  He  celebrates  his  meals  with  luxu- 
rious plate  and  crockery.  He  officiates  at 
table  like  a  high-priest;  he  practises  rites  and 
ceremonies.  At  his  banquets  he  calls  for 
music  and  flowers,  that  he  may  masticate  his 
portion  of  dead  flesh  in  splendour. 

Animals  do  not  display  these  eccentricities. 
They  merely  feed,  which,  after  all,  may  very 
well  be  the  true  means  of  avoiding  deterio- 
ration. They  take  nourishment;  and  that, 
for  them,  is  enough.  They  eat  to  live, 
whereas  many  of  us  live,  above  all,  to  eat. 

Man's  stomach  is  a  pit  in  which  all  things 
edible  are  engulfed.  The  stomach  of  the 
vegetarian  insect  is  a  fastidious  laboratory  to 
which  nothing  but  appointed  mouthfuls  are 
allowed  to  find  their  way.  Each  guest  at  the 
215 


More  Beetles 

vegetarian  banquet  has  its  plant,  its  fruits,  its 
pod,  its  seed,  which  it  eagerly  exploits,  dis- 
daining other  victuals,  though  they  may  be 
of  equal  value. 

The  carnivorous  insect,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  no  narrow  specialities  and  devours  any 
kind  of  flesh.  The  Golden  Carabus  finds 
the  caterpillar,  the  Mantis,  the  Cockchafer, 
the  Earthworm,  the  Slug  or  any  other  kind  of 
game  to  his  taste.  The  Cerceres  collect,  for 
their  grubs,  bags  of  Weevils  or  Buprestes, 
without  distinction  of  species.  The  Bru- 
chus,1  on  the  other  hand,  will  touch  nothing 
but  her  pea  or  her  bean;  the  Golden  Rhynchi- 
tes  2  only  her  sloe ;  the  Spotted  Larinus  3  only 
the  sky-blue  ball  of  her  little  thistle;  the  Nut- 
weevil  4  only  her  filbert ;  the  Iris-weevil 5  only 
the  capsule  of  the  yellow  water  iris.  And 
so  with  other  insects.  The  vegetarian  is  a 
short-sighted  specialist;  the  meat-eater  an 
emancipated  generalizer. 

1  For  the   Pea-weevil   and  the  Haricot-weevil,  cf.   The 
Life   of   the    Weevil,  by   J.    Henri    Fabre,   translated   by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos:  chaps,  xi.  to  xiii. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

2  For  the  Sloe- weevil,  cf.  idem:  chap.  x. — Translator's 
Note. 

3  Cf.  idem:  chap.  ii. — Translator's  Note. 

4  Cf .   idem:    chap.    vi. — Translator's   Note. 
5Cf.  idem:  chap,  xiv.— ^Translator's  Note. 

216 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

Some  years  ago,  with  a  success  which  de- 
lighted the  observer  that  I  am,  I  changed 
the  diet  of  various  carnivorous  larvae.  To 
those  which  lived  on  Weevils  I  gave  Locusts; 
to  those  which  lived  on  Locusts  I  gave  Flies. 
My  nurslings  unhesitatingly  accepted  the 
food  unknown  to  their  race  and  were  none 
the  worse  for  it;  but  I  would  not  undertake 
to  rear  a  caterpillar  with  the  first  sort  of 
leaves  that  came  to  hand:  it  would  starve 
sooner  than  touch  them. 

Animal  matter  having  undergone  a  more 
thorough  refinement  than  vegetable  sub- 
stances, enables  the  stomach  to  pass  from  one 
dish  to  another  without  gradually  becoming 
accustomed  to  each,  whereas  vegetable  food, 
being  comparatively  refractory,  calls  for  an 
apprenticeship  on  the  part  of  the  consumer. 
To  turn  Sheep's  flesh  into  Wolf's  flesh  is  an 
easy  matter :  a  few  minor  transmutations  are 
enough;  but  to  make  mutton  out  of  grass  is 
a  complicated  process  of  digestive  chemistry, 
for  which  the  ruminant's  four  stomachs  are 
none  too  many.  The  carnivorous  insect  is 
able  to  vary  its  diet,  all  sorts  of  game  being 
of  equal  value. 

Vegetable  food  involves  other  conditions. 
With  its  starches,  oils,  essences  and  spices 
217 


More  Beetles 

and  often  with  its  poisons,  each  plant  tried 
would  be  a  perilous  innovation,  to  which  the 
insect,  repelled  by  the  first  mouthfuls,  would 
never  consent.  How  greatly  preferable  to 
these  dangerous  novelties  is  the  invariable 
dish  consecrated  by  ancient  custom !  This, 
no  doubt,  is  why  the  vegetarian  insect  is 
faithful  to  its  plant. 

How  is  this  division  of  the  earth's  abun- 
dance among  its  consumers  effected?  We 
can  hardly  hope  to  understand  the  problem; 
it  is  too  far  beyond  our  methods  of  research. 
The  most  that  we  can  do  is,  by  experimental 
methods,  to  explore  this  corner  of  the  un- 
known a  little,  to  seek  to  discover  how  far 
the  insect's  diet  is  fixed  and  to  note  its  varia- 
tions, if  any.  This  will  give  us  data  which 
the  future  will  employ  to  carry  the  problem 
farther. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  autumn,  I  had 
placed  in  the  vivarium  two  couples  of  the 
Stercoraceous  Geotrupes,  with  an  ample  heap 
of  provender  obtained  from  the  Mules.  I 
had  no  plans  as  regards  my  captives;  I  had 
put  them  there  because  it  was  an  old  habit  of 
mine  never  to  lose  an  opportunity.  Chance 
had  set  them  within  my  reach;  chance  would 
do  the  rest. 

218 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

With  the  sumptuous  provision  which  I 
had  bestowed  upon  them,  the  Geotrupes  had 
had  plenty  wherewith  to  attend  to  their  do- 
mestic affairs.  They  were  overlooked  all  the 
winter,  without  any  further  intervention  on 
my  part.  On  the  approach  of  spring,  curios- 
ity impelled  me,  in  a  leisure  moment,  to  in- 
spect them.  It  had  been  raining  as  hard 
through  the  sides  of  the  cage,  which  consisted 
of  a  metal  trellis,  as  it  had  in  the  streets;  and, 
as  the  water  could  not  trickle  away  through 
the  wooden  floor,  the  soil  in  the  vivarium 
had  turned  to  mud. 

The  sausages  of  food  prepared  by  the  par- 
ents were  numerous,  in  spite  of  everything, 
but  in  a  shocking  state.  Soaked  by  the  rain, 
drenched  to  the  very  centre  by  continual  in- 
filtration, they  fell  into  fragments  if  I  moved 
them.  Nevertheless,  each  contained,  in  the 
tattered  chamber  beneath  it,  an  egg  laid 
about  the  end  of  autumn;  and  this  egg, 
spared  by  the  ice-cold  mud  of  winter,  was  so 
plump,  so  healthy  and  glossy,  that  an  immi- 
nent hatching  seemed  evident. 

What  shall  I  give  the  grubs  when  they 

come  out?     I  dare  not  count  on  the  remnants 

of  the  regulation  sausages,  reduced  to  bales 

of  fibre  by  the  rains.     As  well  give  the  new- 

219 


More  Beetles 

born  larvae  an  old  rope's-end.  What  is  to  be 
done?  We  will  resort  to  a  crazy  artifice 
and  serve  a  dish  of  our  own  invention,  one 
absolutely  unknown  to  the  Geotrupes. 

The  mess  prepared  for  my  larvae  is  made 
of  leaves  decaying  on  the  ground:  hazel-, 
cherry-,  mulberry-,  elm-,  quince-leaves  and 
others.  I  steep  them  in  water  to  soften 
them  and  then  shred  them  like  fine-cut  to- 
bacco. The  egg  is  placed  at  the  bottom  of 
a  test-tube ;  and  I  pack  a  column  of  my  vege- 
table mince-meat  on  the  top.  For  purposes 
of  comparison,  other  eggs  are  similarly 
lodged,  but  with  a  thankless  ration  of  the 
normal  preserves  soaked  by  the  rains. 

Hatching  occurs  during  the  first  week  in 
March.  I  have  before  my  eyes,  when  it 
leaves  the  egg,  the  larva  which  astonished 
me  so  greatly  when  I  first  realized,  many 
years  ago,  that  it  was  a  cripple.  In  once 
more  referring  to  this  strange  abnormality, 
I  will  confine  myself  to  a  few  words  on  the 
subject  of  the  head,  which  is  remarkably 
bulky,  swollen  as  it  is  by  the  motor  muscles 
of  the  mandibular  shears  with  broad,  flat 
blades,  notched  at  the  tip  and  bearing  a 
strong  spur  at  the  base.  It  is  enough  to  see 
this  dental  armoury  to  recognize  the  new- 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

born  grub  as  one  that  will  not  object  to 
tackling  ligneous  fibres.  With  such  a  minc- 
ing-machine, a  bit  of  straw  must  be  a  luxury. 

I  watch  the  grubs  taking  their  first  mouth' 
fuls.  I  expected  to  see  them ,  hesitating, 
searching  uneasily  through  these  unaccus- 
tomed victuals,  such  as  no  Geotrupes,  it  seems 
to  me,  can  ever  have  used.  Nothing  of  the 
sort:  this  eater  of  dung-sausages  accepts  the 
dead-leaf-sausages  off-hand  and  so  enthusias- 
tically that  I  am  convinced  at  the  first  trial 
of  the  success  of  my  queer  experiment. 

The  grub  finds  before  it,  to  begin  with,  the 
main  nerve  of  a  leaf.  It  seizes  it,  turns  it 
over  and  over  with  its  palpi  and  fore-legs 
and  then  gently  nibbles  one  end  of  it.  The 
whole  of  it  goes  down.  Other  morsels  fol- 
low, large  or  small  indifferently.  There  is 
no  picking  and  choosing:  what  the  mandibles 
encounter  they  crunch.  And  this  goes  on  in- 
definitely, always  with  an  unimpaired  appe- 
tite, so  that  the  insect  attains  the  perfect 
stage  without  a  check.  When  the  back  is 
black  as  ebony  and  the  belly  an  amethystine 
violet,  I  set  my  Geotrupes  at  liberty.  I  am 
filled  with  amazement  by  what  he  has  taught 
me. 

An  inverse  experiment  was  essential.     A 

221 


More  Beetles 

Dung-beetle  thrives  on  rotten  leaves ;  shall  I 
be  equally  successful  in  rearing  an  eater  of 
vegetable  refuse  on  dung?  From  the  heap 
of  dead  leaves  accumulated  in  a  corner  of  the 
garden  for  mould,  I  obtain  a  dozen  half- 
grown  larvae  of  the  Golden  Cetonia.  I  in- 
stall them  in  a  glass  jar,  with  no  other  food 
than  Mule-droppings  which  have  acquired 
the  proper  consistency  by  a  few  days'  ex- 
posure to  the  air  on  the  high-road.  The 
stercoral  ration  is  welcomed  by  the  future 
rose-dweller.  I  cannot  see  any  signs  of  hesi- 
tation or  repugnance.  When  half-dry,  the 
Mule's  fibrous  scraps  are  consumed  as  readily 
as  the  leaves  brown  with  decay.  A  second 
jar  contains  larvae  fed  in  the  normal  fashion. 
There  is  no  difference  between  the  two 
groups  in  the  matter  of  appetite  and  healthy 
looks.  In  both  cases  the  metamorphosis  is 
properly  accomplished. 

This  double  success  gives  food  for  thought. 
Certainly  the  Cetonia-grub  would  have  noth- 
ing to  gain  if  it  thought  fit  to  abandon  its 
heap  of  dead  leaves  in  order  to  exploit  the 
Mule-droppings  in  the  road;  it  would  be 
leaving  inexhaustible  abundance,  pleasant 
moisture  and  perfect  security  in  exchange  for 
a  scanty,  perilous  diet,  trampled  underfoot 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

by  the  passers-by.  It  will  not  commit  this 
act  of  folly,  however  alluring  the  bait  of  a 
new  dish. 

It  is  not  the  same  thing  with  the  larva  of 
the  Geotrupes.  In  the  open  fields,  the  drop- 
pings of  beasts  of  burden,  without  being 
scarce,  are  not  by  any  means  to  be  met  with 
everywhere.  They  are  found  chiefly  on  the 
roads,  which,  encrusted  with  macadam,  offer 
an  insuperable  obstacle  to  burrowing.  On 
the  other  hand,  half-rotten  dead  leaves  ac- 
cumulate everywhere  in  inexhaustible  quanti- 
ties. What  is  more,  they  abound  on  loose 
soil,  which  is  easily  excavated.  If  they  are 
too  dry,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  their 
being  carried  down  to  such  a  depth  that  the 
moisture  of  the  soil  will  give  them  the  re- 
quisite pliability.  An  insect  is  not  a  Geo- 
trupes, an  earth-borer,  for  nothing.  A  silo 
sunk  a  few  inches  deeper  than  the  ordinary 
burrows  would  make  an  excellent  steeping- 
vat. 

Since  the  Geotrupes-grubs  thrive  on  a 
column  of  rotten  leaves,  as  my  experiments 
have  proved,  it  would  seem  that  the  maker 
of  dung-sausages  would  gain  greatly  by 
slightly  modifying  her  trade  and  substituting 
fermented  leaves  for  stercoral  matter.  The 
223 


More  Beetles 

race  would  be  the  better  for  the  change  and 
would  become  more  numerous,  since  there 
would  be  plenty  of  food  in  perfectly  safe 
places. 

If  the  Geotrupes  does  nothing  of  the  kind, 
if  it  has  never  even  attempted  to  do  so,  apart 
from  my  artificial  methods  of  rearing,  it  is 
because  the  regimen  is  not  determined  merely 
by  the  appetites  of  the  consumers.  Eco- 
nomic laws  regulate  the  diet  and  each  species 
has  its  portion,  in  order  that  nothing  shall  be 
left  unused  in  the  treasury  of  unorganizable 
matter. 

Let  us  consider  a  few  examples.  The 
Death's-head  Hawk-moth  (Acherontia  atro- 
pos,  LINN.)  has  the  leaves  of  the  potato  for 
her  caterpillar's  portion.  She  is  a  foreigner, 
who  seems  to  have  come  from  America  to- 
gether with  her  food-plant  I  have  tried  to 
rear  her  caterpillar  on  various  plants  belong- 
ing, like  the  potato,  to  the  family  of  the 
Solanaceae.  Henbane,  datura  and  tobacco 
were  obstinately  refused,  despite  the  acute 
hunger  displayed  when  the  normal  food  was 
served. 

The  violent  alkaloids  with  which  these 
plants  are  saturated  may  perhaps  explain  this 
refusal.  We  will  therefore  keep  the  true 
224 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

genus  Solanum  and  we  will  replace  the  too 
active  poisons  by  solanin,  which  is  not  so  viru- 
lent. The  leaves  of  the  tomato  (Solanum 
lycopersicum),  the  egg-plant  (S.  melongena), 
the  black-berried  nightshade  (S.  nigrum), 
the  orange-berried  nightshade  (S.  villosum), 
a  native  of  New  Zealand,  and  the  common 
bittersweet  of  our  country-sides  (S.  dulca- 
mara) are,  on  the  other  hand,  accepted  with 
the  same  relish  as  the  potato. 

These  contradictory  results  leave  me  per- 
plexed. Since  the  caterpillar  of  the  Death's- 
head  Hawk-moth  requires  food  flavoured 
with  solanin,  why  are  certain  species  of  the 
same  genus  Solanum  gluttonously  devoured 
and  others  refused?  Can  it  be  because  the 
dose  of  solanin  is  unequal,  being  weaker  here 
and  more  abundant  there?  Or  are  there 
other  reasons?  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss. 

The  magnificent  caterpillar  of  the  Spurge 
Hawk-moth,  La  Belle,  as  Reaumur  calls  it, 
knows  nothing  of  these  inexplicable  prefer- 
ences. It  welcomes  any  species  whose 
wounds  exude  the  sap  of  the  tithymals,  the 
white  milky  liquid  with  the  fiery  flavour.  In 
my  neighbourhood  it  is  often  found  on  the 
tall  spurge  of  these  parts,  Euphorbia  chara- 
cias;  but  it  is  just  as  happy  on  smaller  species, 
225 


More  Beetles 

such  as  the  narrow  notch-leaved  spurge 
(Euphorbia  serrata}  and  Gerard's  spurge 
(E.  Gerardiana). 

Under  my  bell-jars  it  thrives  on  the  first 
spurge  that  comes  to  hand.  Anything  ex- 
cept these  caustic  foods,  which  no  other 
caterpillar  would  accept,  it  abhors.  It  turns 
away  in  disdain  from  the  insipid  lettuce  of 
our  gardens,  from  peppermint,  from  the  Cru- 
ciferae,  rich  in  sulphurous  juices,  the  caustic 
ranunculus  and  other  more  or  less  highly 
flavoured  plants.  It  will  have  nothing  but 
the  spurge,  whose  milky  sap  would  corrode 
any  gullet  but  its  own.  An  insect  that  can 
feed  with  pleasure  on  such  acrid  fare  must 
obviously  be  predisposed  that  way. 

For  that  matter,  consumers  devoted  to 
pungent  flavours  are  not  scarce.  The  grub 
of  Brachycerus  algirus  is  as  fond  of  aioli  as 
the  Provencal  peasant;  it  thrives  and  grows 
fat  in  a  clove  of  garlic,  without  other  nour- 
ishment. 

What  is  more,  I  have  found  the  larvae  of 
I  know  not  what  insect  on  Nux  vomica,  the 
terrible  poison  with  which  our  municipal 
authorities  flavour  the  sausages  used  for  de- 
stroying Wolves  and  stray  dogs.  These 
strychnine-eaters  have  certainly  not  accus- 
226 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

tomed  themselves  by  degrees  to  this  terrible 
diet:  they  would  perish  at  the  first  mouth- 
ful, if  they  had  not  a  specially  constructed 
stomach  at  their  service. 

This  exclusive  taste  for  such  or  such  a 
vegetable,  sometimes  harmless  and  some- 
times poisonous,  has  many  exceptions.  Some 
vegetarian  insects  are  omnivorous.  The  de- 
structive Locust  nibbles  every  green  thing; 
our  common  Grasshoppers  eat  the  tips  of  any 
sort  of  grass  without  distinction.  Kept  in 
a  cage  to  divert  the  children,  the  Field 
Cricket  feasts  on  a  leaf  of  lettuce  or  endive, 
new  foodstuffs  that  help  it  to  forget  the 
tough  grasses  of  his  meadows. 

In  April,  on  the  green  banks  by  the  road- 
side, we  meet  with  squads  of  an  ugly,  fat, 
bronze-black  creature,  which,  when  we  tease 
it,  plays  the  Tortoise,  shrinking  into  a  ball. 
It  walks  heavily  on  six  feeble  legs,  while  the 
end  of  the  intestine,  becoming  a  supplemen- 
tary foot,  acts  as  a  lever  and  pushes  it  for- 
ward. It  is  the  larva  of  a  large  black  Chry- 
somela  (Timarcha  tenebricosa,  FAB.),  an  un- 
pleasant Beetle  which,  in  self-defense,  dis- 
gorges an  orange  spittle. 

I  amused  myself  last  spring  by  following  a 
flock  of  these  larvae  to  their  grazing-grounds. 
227 


More  Beetles 

The  favourite  plant  was  one  of  the  Rubia- 
cese,  the  cheese-rennet  (Galium  verum),  in 
the  stage  of  young  .shoots.  Various  other 
plants  were  eaten  no  less  readily  on  the  way, 
including  especially  Cichoriaceae  such  as 
Pterotheca  nemansensis,  Chondrilla  jubcea 
or  gum-succory,  and  cut-leaved  podospermum 
(P.  laciniatum) i  and  Leguminosae  such  as 
Medicago  falcata,  or  yellow  medick  and  Tri- 
folium  repens,  or  white  clover.  The  acrid 
flavours  did  not  in  the  least  discourage  the 
flock.  A  Gerard's  spurge  was  met  with, 
trailing  its  flower  on  the  ground.  A  few 
larvae  stopped  and  nibbled  the  tender  tops  as 
eagerly  as  the  clover.  In  short,  the  fat  crip- 
pled larva  varies  its  meal  greatly. 

Examples  abound  of  insects  equally  omniv- 
orous of  vegetable  substances;  there  is  no 
need  to  linger  over  them.  Let  us  pass  on  to 
the  exploiters  of  woody  materials.  The 
larva  of  Ergates  faber  lives  exclusively  in  de- 
cayed pine-stumps;  the  hideous  caterpillar  of 
the  Moth  inappropriately  known  as  the  Cos- 
sus  eats  into  old  willow-trees,  in  company 
with  the  ^gosoma. 

These  two  are  specialists. 

The  lesser  Capricorn,  Cerambyx  cerdo,  en- 
trusts her  grubs  to  the  hawthorn,  the  sloe, 
228 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

the  aprioot-tree  and  the  cherry-laurel,  all  of 
which  trees  or  shrubs  belong  to  the  family  of 
the  Rosaceae.  She  varies  her  domain  a 
little,  while  remaining  faithful  to  woody  veg- 
etation characterized  by  a  faint  flavour  of 
prussic  acid. 

The  Zeuzera,  or  Leopard-moth,  a  large 
and  beautiful  white  Moth  with  blue  spots,  is 
more  general.  She  is  the  scourge  of  most 
of  the  trees  and  shrubs  in  my  enclosure.  I 
find  her  caterpillar  chiefly  in  the  lilac-tree; 
also  in  the  elm,  the  plant-tree,  the  quince,  the 
guelder-rose,  the  pear-tree  and  the  chestnut. 
In  these,  always  working  upwards,  it  bores 
itself  straight  galleries  which  turn  a  branch 
the  thickness  of  a  good-sized  bottle-neck  into 
a  fragile  sheath  soon  broken  by  the  winter 
wind. 

To  return  to  the  specialists:  the  Shagreen 
Saperda  exploits  the  black  poplar  and  accepts 
nothing  else,  not  even  the  white  poplar;  the 
Spotted  Saperda  has  the  elm  for  its  domain; 
the  Scalary  Saperda  is  faithful  to  the  dead 
cherry-tree.1  The  Great  Capricorn  lodges 
her  grubs  in  the  oak,  sometimes  the  English 
oak  and  sometimes  the  evergreen  oak,  or  ilex. 

1  For    the    Saperda-beetles    cf.    The    Glow-worm    and 
Other  Beetles:  chap.  viii. — Translator's  Note. 
229 


More  Beetles 

This  last  Beetle,  being  easily  reared  with 
slices  of  pear  for  food  and  sticks  of  wood  in 
which  to  establish  her  family,  lends  herself 
to  an  experiment  of  some  interest. 

I  collect  the  eggs  which  the  mother's 
pointed,  groping  oviduct  has  slipped  into  the 
irregular  crevices  of  the  bark.  The  number 
obtained  enables  me  to  make  a  variety  of 
tests.  Will  the  new-born  larvae  accept  the 
first  wood  that  offers  after  they  are  hatched. 
That  is  the  problem. 

I  select  freshly-cut  billets  measuring  two 
or  three  fingers'-breadths  in  diameter. 
They  include  the  ilex,  elm,  lime,  robinia, 
cherry,  willow,  elder,  lilac,  fig,  laurel  and 
pine.  To  avoid  falls,  which  would  confuse 
the  newborn  grubs  if  they  had  to  wander 
about  in  search  of  the  spot  at  which  to  bore, 
I  do  my  best  to  imitate  the  natural  condi- 
tions. The  mother  Capricorn  lodges  her 
eggs,  one  at  a  time,  here  and  there  in  the  fis- 
sures of  the  bark,  fixing  them  with  a  thin  var- 
nish. I  cannot  gum  the  eggs  in  this  way :  my 
glue  would  perhaps  endanger  the  vitality  of 
the  egg;  but  I  can  resort  to  the  firm  support 
of  a  furrow.  With  the  point  of  a  penknife 
I  make  this  furrow,  that  is  to  say,  a  tiny  cleft 
230 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

into   which   the   egg  sinks   half-way.     This 
precaution  succeeds  admirably. 

In  a  few  days  the  eggs  hatch  without 
falling  off,  each  at  the  spot  decided  by  the 
point  of  my  penknife.  I  watch  in  amaze- 
ment the  first  wriggles  of  the  feeble  little 
creature's  body,  the  first  strokes  of  its  plane, 
as  it  attacks  the  thankless  material,  the  bark 
and  the  wood,  still  dragging  its  white  egg- 
shell behind  it.  By  the  following  day,  each 
grub  has  disappeared  beneath  a  fine  sawdust, 
the  result  of  the  work  accomplished.  The 
mound  is  still  very  small,  matching  the  weak- 
ness of  the  excavator.  Let  us  leave  the  grub 
at  work.  For  a  fortnight  we  see  the  mound 
grow  bigger  and  bigger,  until  it  is  almost  the 
size  of  a  pinch  of  snuff.  Then  everything 
stops.  The  amount  of  sawdust  does  not  in- 
crease, except  in  the  oak-billet. 

This  activity  at  the  outset,  which  is  every- 
where the  same,  in  media  differing  so  greatly 
in  aroma  and  flavour,  would  lead  us  to  sup- 
pose, at  first  thoughts,  that  the  young  Cer- 
ambyx  is  endowed  with  a  highly  complaisant 
stomach  and  can  feed  on  the  fig-tree,  oozing 
with  acrid  milk,  the  laurel,  aromatic  with 
essential  oils,  and  the  pine,  saturated  with 
231 


More  Beetles 

resin,  as  well  as  on  the  oak,  seasoned  with 
tannin.  Reflection  persuades  us  that  we  are 
mistaken.  The  little  creature  is  not  engaged 
in  eating:  it  is  toiling  to  make  itself  a  deep 
lodging  in  which  it  can  feast  in  peace. 

When  examined  through  the  lens,  the  saw- 
dust confirms  our  theory:  this  dust  has  not 
passed  through  the  digestive  canal;  it  has 
played  no  part  in  feeding  the  grub.  It  is 
only  so  much  meal,  crumbled  by  the  man- 
dibles, and  nothing  more. 

When  appetite  has  come  and  the  requisite 
depth  has  been  reached,  the  grub  at  last  be- 
gins to  eat.  If  it  finds  the  traditional  food 
ready  to  its  teeth,  the  sap-wood  of  the  oak, 
with  its  astringent  flavour,  it  gorges  itself 
and  proceeds  to  digest.  If  it  finds  nothing 
of  the  sort,  it  abstains  from  eating.  This  is 
certainly  the  reason  why  the  heap  of  sawdust 
grows  larger  on  the  billet  of  oak  but  remains 
indefinitely  stationary  on  the  others. 

What  do  they  do  in  their  little  galleries, 
these  grubs  subjected  to  a  strict  fast  in  the 
absence  of  suitable  victuals?  In  March,  six 
months  after  the  hatching,  I  look  into  the 
matter.  I  split  the  billets.  There  they  are, 
the  little  grubs,  no  larger,  but  still  lively, 
232 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

swaying  their  heads  to  and  fro  if  I  disturb 
them.  This  persistence  of  life  in  such  puny 
creatures  deprived  of  food  rouses  our  aston- 
ishment. It  reminds  us  of  the  grubs  of  the 
Attelabus-beetle,  which,  subjected  to  the 
drought  of  summer  in  their  little  kegs  made 
of  a  strip  of  oak-leaf,  cease  eating  and 
slumber,  half-dead,  for  four  or  five  months, 
until  the  autumn  rains  have  softened  their 
food. 

When  I  myself  produced  rain,  a  thing  not 
beyond  my  power,  so  far  as  the  needs  of  a 
grub  are  concerned,  when  I  softened  the  rigid 
kegs  and  made  them  edible  by  a  brief  immer- 
sion in  water,  the  recluses  used  to  return  to 
life,  begin  to  eat  again  and  continue  their 
larval  development  without  further  check. 
Similarly,  after  six  months'  fasting  in  the 
heart  of  inacceptable  sticks,  the  Capricorn 
grubs  would  have  recovered  their  strength 
and  activity  if  I  had  removed  them  and  put 
before  them  a  freshly-cut  billet  of  oak.  I 
did  not  do  it,  so  certain  did  the  success  of  the 
experiment  appear. 

I  had  other  schemes  in  view.     I  wished 
to  learn  how  long  this  arrested  life  could  be 
prolonged.     A  year  after   the  hatching,   I 
233 


More  Beetles 

examined  my  specimens  again.  This 'time  I 
have  gone  too  far.  All  the  grubs  are  dead, 
reduced  to  dark  brown  granules;  only  those 
in  the  oak  are  alive  and  already  well-grown. 
The  experiment  is  conclusive;  the  Great 
Capricorn  has  the  oak  for  her  domain;  any 
other  tree  is  fatal  to  her  grub. 

Let  us  recapitulate  these  details,  to  which 
it  were  easy  to  add  indefinitely.  Among  the 
vegetarian  insects  are  some  that  are  omniv- 
orous, by  which  we  mean  that  they  are  able 
to  feed  on  a  great  variety  of  plants,  but  not 
on  all  indifferently:  that  goes  without  saying. 
These  consumers  of  miscellaneous  foodstuffs 
are  in  the  minority.  The  others  specialize, 
some  more  and  others  less  strictly.  One 
guest  at  the  great  banquet  of  the  animal 
world  requires  a  vegetable  family,  a  group, 
a  genus  flavoured  with  certain  alkaloids; 
another  needs  a  given  plant,  sometimes 
faintly  and  sometimes  highly  flavoured;  a 
third  demands  a  seed,  apart  from  which 
nothing  is  of  use  to  it;  and  others  require 
their  pod,  bud,  or  blossom,  their  bark,  root 
or  bough  respectively.  So  it  is  with  one  and 
all.  Each  insect  has  its  exclusive  tastes,  nar- 
234 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

rowly  limited,  to  the  point  of  refusing  the 
close  equivalent  of  the  thing  accepted. 

Lest  we  lose  our  way  in  the  inextricable 
throng  at  the  entomological  banquet  let  us 
consider  separately  our  two  Capricorns, 
Cerambyx  heros  and  C.  cerdo.  No  two 
creatures  could  be  more  alike  than  these  two 
long-horned  Beetles;  the  lesser  is  the  very 
picture  of  the  greater.  Let  us  also  consider 
the  three  Saperdse  mentioned  above.  They 
are  the  same  shape,  as  though  they  had  been 
turned  out  of  similar  moulds,  so  much  so  that 
we  should  confound  them  if  differences  of 
size  and  above  all  of  colour  did  not  proclaim 
them  to  be  of  separate  species. 

The  theorists  tell  us  that  our  two  Capri- 
corns  and  their  congeners  spring  from  a  com- 
mon stock,  ramified  in  various  directions  by 
the  action  of  the  centuries.  In  the  same 
way,  our  three  Saperdae  and  the  others  are 
variations  of  a  primitive  type.  The  ances- 
tors of  the  Capricorns,  the  Saperdae  and  the 
Longicorns  in.  general  are  in  their  turn  de- 
scended from  a  remote  precursor,  who  her- 
self was  descended  from  etc.,  etc.  One  more 
plunge  into  the  darkness  of  the  past  and  we 
235 


More  Beetles 

shall  soon  reach  the  origins  of  the  zoological 
series.  What  begins  at  all?  The  Proto- 
zoon.  How?  With  a  drop  of  albumen. 
The  whole  succession  of  living  creatures  has 
gradually  proceeded  from  this  first  clot  of 
protoplasm. 

As  an  effort  of  the  imagination,  this  is 
magnificent.  But  the  observable  facts,  which 
alone  are  worthy  of  admission  to  the  stern 
records  of  science,  the  facts  corroborated  by 
experiment,  cannot  keep  pace  with  the  Proto- 
zoon.  They  tell  us  that,  as  food  is  the  pri- 
mordial factor  of  life,  digestive  capacities 
should  be  handed  down  by  atavistic  in- 
heritance even  more  than  are  the  length  of 
the  antennae,  the  colour  of  the  wing-cases  and 
other  details  of  quite  secondary  importance. 
To  bring  about  the  present  state  of  affairs, 
in  which  the  diet  is  so  varied,  the  precursors 
must  have  eaten  a  little  of  everything.  They 
ought  to  have  bequeathed  to  their  descen- 
dants an  omnivorous  regimen,  which  is  a 
notable  cause  of  prosperity. 

A  common  origin  would  inevitably  lead  to 

a  common  diet.     Instead  of  this,  what  do  we 

see?     Each  species  has  its  narrowly  limited 

tastes,  which  have  no  reference  to  the  tastes 

236 


The  Vegetarian  Insects 

of  the  cognate  species.  If  they  are  related 
through  a  common  ancestry,  it  is  absolutely 
impossible  to  understand  why,  of  our  two 
Capricorns,  one  is  allotted  the  oak  and  the 
other  the  hawthorn  and  the  cherry-laurel; 
why,  of  our  three  Saperdae,  the  first  demands 
the  black  poplar,  the  second  the  elm  and  the 
third  the  dead  cherry-tree.  This  gastric  in- 
dependence loudly  proclaims  independence 
of  origin.  And  simple  common  sense,  not 
always  welcome  to  the  adventurous  theorists, 
is  of  the  same  opinion. 


237 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE    DWARFS 

A  PROVENCAL  proverb  says: 
"Chasque  toupin   trobo  sa  cubercello; 
Chasque  badan,  sa  badarello." 

It  is  true;  every  pot  finds  its  lid,  everyjack 
his  Jill.  The  hunchbacked,  the  blind,  the 
bandy-legged,  the  physically  or  morally  de- 
formed: one  and  all  have  their  attractions 
which  render  them  acceptable  in  certain  eyes. 

Insects  too,  no  less  than  men  and  stew- 
pans,  always  find  their  natural  complement, 
though  it  mate  the  faultless  with  the  faulty. 
Of  this  Minotaurus  Typhceus  furnishes  a 
splendid  example.  The  hazards  of  excava- 
tion present  me  with  a  curious  couple,  keep- 
ing house  at  the  bottom  of  a  burrow.  The 
female  calls  for  no  special  remark:  she  is 
just  a  handsome  matron.  But  the  male! 
What  a  sorry  creature,  what  an  abortion ! 
The  middle  point  of  his  trident  is  reduced 
to  a  mere  spiked  granule;  those  at  the  side 
come  just  level  with  the  eyes,  whereas  in  nor- 
238 


The  Dwarfs 

mal  subjects  they  reach  the  extreme  point 
of  the  head.  I  measure  the  little  beggar. 
His  length  is  twelve  millimetres  l  instead  of 
eighteen,  2  the  ordinary  size.  According  to 
these  figures,  the  dwarf  is  barely  a  quarter  of 
the  usual  bulk. 

In  an  earlier  chapter  of  the  present  vol- 
ume, I  mentioned  a  magnificent  male  Mino- 
taur who  was  obstinately  refused  by  the  con- 
sort whom  my  experiments  had  given  him. 
The  handsome  horn-bearer  did  not  leave  the 
burrow;  the  other,  despite  my  frequent  inter- 
ventions to  restore  harmony  in  the  house- 
hold, deserted  her  home  nightly  and  sought 
to  set  up  house  elsewhere.  I  had  to  give  her 
another  partner;  the  one  that  I  had  thrust 
upon  her  did  not  suit  her.  If  the  male  en- 
dowed with  a  generous  stature  and  trident  is 
often  refused,  how  did  the  miserable  speci- 
men under  consideration  win  the  affections 
of  his  powerful  mate?  The  unequal  associ- 
ations are  doubtless  to  be  explained  among 
the  Dung-beetles  as  among  ourselves:  love 
is  blind. 

Would  this  ill-assorted  pair  have  bred? 
And  would  one  part  of  the  family  have  in- 

1 .468   inch. — Translator's  Note. 
2 .702    inch. — Translator's  Note. 
239 


More  Beetles 

herited  the  noble  dimensions  of  the  mother 
and  the  other  the  stunted  dimensions  of  the 
father?  Not  possessing,  at  the  moment,  a 
suitable  apparatus,  that  is  to  say,  a  tall  col- 
umn of  earth  held  between  four  planks,  I 
lodged  my  Beetles  in  the  longest  test-tube 
among  my  entomological  glass-ware,  with 
moist  sand  and  victuals  at  their  disposal. 

At  first,  all  went  according  to  rule,  the 
mother  digging  and  the  father  clearing  away 
the  rubbish.  A  few  droppings  were  stored; 
then,  on  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  test-tube, 
the  couple  pined  away  and  died.  The  layer 
of  sand  was  not  deep  enough.  Before  pil- 
ing the  food-sausage  on  top  of  an  egg,  the 
pair  needed  a  shaft  at  least  forty  inches  in 
depth,  whereas  they  had  only  some  eighteen 
inches  to  dig  in. 

This  failure  did  not  put  an  end  to  my  list 
of  questions.  Where  did  that  pigmy  spring 
from?  Was  he  the  outcome  of  a  special  pre- 
disposition, transmitted  by  heredity?  Or 
was  he  descended  from  another  dwarf,  who 
himself  proceeded  from  a  similar  abortion? 
Was  his  deficiency  merely  an  accident,  which 
had  nothing  to  do  with  heredity,  an  individ- 
ual littleness  not  transmissible  from  father 
240 


The  Dwarfs 

to  son?  I  incline  to  the  theory  of  an  acci- 
dent. But  what  sort  of  accident?  I  can 
think  of  only  one  liable  to  diminish  the  size 
without  injuring  the  type:  I  mean,  a  lack  of 
sufficient  food. 

We  argue  thus :  animals  virtually  take 
shape  in  a  mould  whose  capacity  may  be  ex- 
tended in  proportion  to  the  amount  of  mol- 
ten substance  which  the  crucible  pours  into  it. 
If  this  mould  receives  only  the  strictly  neces- 
sary amount,  the  result  is  a  dwarf.  Any- 
thing beneath  this  minimum  means  death  by 
starvation;  anything  above  it,  in  doses  which 
increase  but  are  soon  limited,  means  a  pros- 
perous life  and  a  normal  or  slightly  larger 
size.  The  bulk  is  decided  by  plus  or  minus 
quantities  of  food. 

If  logic  be  not  a  vain  delusion,  it  is  there- 
fore possible  to  obtain  dwarfs  at  will.  All 
that  we  need  do  is  to  diminish  the  provisions 
to  the  lowest  limits  compatible  with  the  main- 
tenance of  life.  On  the  other  hand,  we  can- 
not hope  to  make  giants  by  increasing  the 
ration,  for  a  moment  comes  when  the  stom- 
ach refuses  any  excess  of  food.  Natural  ne- 
cessities may  be  likened  to  a  series  of  rungs 
of  which  the  one  at  the  top  cannot  be  passed, 
241 


More  Beetles 

while  it  is  quite  practicable  to  stand  higher 
or  lower  on  those  near  the  bottom. 

First  of  all  we  must  discover  the  regular 
ration.  The  majority  of  insects  have  none. 
The  larva  grows  up  amidst  an  indeterminate 
supply  of  victuals;  it  eats  as  it  pleases  and  as 
much  as  it  pleases,  with  no  other  check  than 
its  appetite.  Others,  those  most  richly  en- 
dowed in  maternal  qualities  such  as  the  Dung- 
beetles  and  the  Bees  and  Wasps,  prepare 
definite  rations  of  preserved  food,  neither 
too  large  nor  too  small.  The  Bee  stores  up 
in  receptacles  of  clay,  cement,  resin,  cotton 
or  leaf-cuttings  just  the  right  amount  of 
honey  for  a  larva's  welfare;  and,  as  she 
knows  the  sex  of  the  future  insects,  she  puts 
a  little  more  at  the  service  of  the  grubs  that 
are  to  become  females  and  will  be  slightly 
larger  and  a  little  less  at  the  service  of  the 
grubs  that  are  to  become  males  and  there- 
fore will  be  smaller.  In  like  manner,  the 
Hunting  Wasps  dole  out  their  game  accord- 
ing to  the  sex  of  the  nurslings. 

It  is  now  a  long  time  since  I  did  my  utmost 
to  upset  the  mother's  wise  previsions  by  tak- 
ing food  from  the  wealthy  grubs  to  increase 
the  store  of  the  poor.  In  this  way  I  ob- 
242 


The  Dwarfs 

tained  some  slight  modifications  of  size,  to 
which  the  terms  giant  and  dwarf  could  not, 
however,  be  applied;  still  less  did  I  succeed 
in  changing  the  sex,  whose  determination 
does  not  in  any  way  depend  upon  the  quan- 
tity of  food  supplied.  The  Bees  and  Wasps 
are  not  suited  to  my  present  purpose.  Their 
grubs  are  too  delicately  constituted.  What 
I  want  is  sturdy  stomachs  capable  of  endur- 
ing severe  ordeals.  I  shall  find  them  in  the 
Dung-beetles,  notably  in  the  Sacred  Beetle, 
whose  natural  portliness  will  facilitate  our 
appreciation  of  any  change  of  bulk. 

The  big  pill-roller  calculates  the  food  of 
her  larvae  precisely:  each  grub  has  its  loaf, 
kneaded  into  the  shape  of  a  pear.  All  these 
loaves  are  not  strictly  equal;  some  are  larger 
and  some  smaller,  but  the  difference  is  only 
minute.  Perhaps  these  slight  inequalities 
are  connected  with  the  sex  of  the  nurslings, 
as  among  the  Bees  and  Wasps;  the  females 
would  receive  the  larger  and  the  males  the 
smaller  rations.  I  did  not  take  any  steps  to 
verify  this  theory.  No  matter:  the  fact  re- 
mains that  the  Sacred  Beetle's  pear  is,  in  the 
mother's  opinion,  a  convenient  individual 
ration.  As  for  me,  I  can,  if  I  please,  alter 
243 


More  Beetles 

the  size  of  the  loaf,  increasing  or  decreasing 
it  at  will.  Let  us  first  consider  the  decrease. 

In  May,  I  procure  four  recent  pears,  con- 
taining the  egg  in  the  chamber  of  the  termi- 
nal nipple.  By  making  an  equatorial  section, 
I  cut  off  the  hinder  half,  in  the  shape  of  a 
large  spherical  cap ;  the  other  half,  sur- 
mounted by  its  neck,  I  retain;  and  I  place 
the  four  egg-bearing  portions  in  as  many 
small  jars,  in  which  there  is  no  danger  of 
either  desiccation  or  excessive  damp. 

With  these  provisions  decreased  by  half, 
development  takes  place  as  usual;  then  two 
of  the  grubs  die,  apparently  the  victims  of 
defective  hygiene:  my  jars  are  not  equal  to 
the  burrows,  with  their  pleasant  moisture. 
The  two  others  are  still  in  good  condition, 
ever  ready  to  plug  with  dung  the  window 
which  I  cut  through  the  wall  of  the  cell  when 
I  wish  to  inspect  them.  At  the  end  of  the 
active  period,  I  find  them  remarkably  small 
in  comparison  with  those  of  their  fellows 
who  have  been  left  in  possession  of  the  whole 
pear.  The  effect  of  insufficient  food  is  al- 
ready manifest.  What  will  it  be  in  the  per- 
fect insect? 

In  September  there  emerge  from  the  shells 
244 


The  Dwarfs 

adults  such  as  my  hunts  in  the  meadows  never 
yielded,  dwarfs,  hardly  larger  than  a  thumb- 
nail, but  correctly  shaped  in  every  other 
respect. 

Let  me  quote  some  exact  figures.  Each 
of  them  measures  nineteen  millimetres  * 
from  the  edge  of  the  clypeus  to  the  tip  of  the 
abdomen.  The  smallest  specimen  in  my 
boxes,  as  the  freedom  of  the  fields  made  him, 
measures  twenty-six.2  The  products  of  my 
experiments,  fed  upon  half  rations,  are  there- 
fore only  half  the  bulk  of  the  normal  Beetle 
chosen  from  among  the  smallest.  This  is 
also  approximately  the  ratio  between  the  full 
and  the  reduced  diet.  The  extensible  mould 
of  the  organism  has  reproduced  the  propor- 
tion of  the  substance  at  its  disposal. 

My  intervention  has  just  created  dwarfs; 
treatment  by  starvation  has  given  me  abor- 
tions. I  am  not  excessively  proud  of  it, 
though  I  am  glad  to  have  learned  by  experi- 
ment that  dwarfishness,  at  all  events  in  the 
insects,  is  not  a  matter  of  predisposition  and 
heredity  but  a  mere  accident  caused  by  de- 
ficient nourishment. 

What  then  had  happened  to  the  little  Min- 

1  y$  inch. — ^Translator's  Note.' 
!i    inch. — Translator's   Note. 
245 


More  Beetles 

otaur  who  suggested  these  experiments  in 
starvation?  Assuredly  a  deficiency  of  food. 
Though  expert  in  the  art  of  rationing,  the 
mother  was  unable  to  complete  the  sausage 
over  the  egg,  perhaps  because  the  materials 
were  lacking,  or  because  some  inopportune 
incident  interrupted  her  work;  and  the  grub, 
scantily  fed,  though  strong  enough  to  with- 
stand a  not  too  rigorous  diet,  was  unable  to 
acquire  the  wherewithal  to  provide  the  adult 
with  the  amount  of  substance  needed  for  the 
normal  size.  This  seems  to  be  the  whole 
secret  of  the  tiny  Minotaur.  He  was  a  child 
of  poverty. 

While  privation  reduces  the  size,  it  does 
not  follow  that  unlimited  abundance  is  able 
to  increase  it  very  notably.  In  vain  do  I 
provide  the  grubs  of  the  Sacred  Beetle  with 
an  extra  allowance  of  food  that  doubles  or 
trebles  the  ration  supplied  by  the  mother. 
My  boarders  do  not  attain  a  growth  worth 
mentioning.  As  they  leave  the  maternal 
pears,  so  do  they  leave  the  plentiful  messes 
which  my  spatula  has  mixed  for  them.  And 
this  must  be  so:  the  appetite  has  its  limits, 
which,  once  reached,  leave  the  consumer  in- 
different to  the  luxuries  of  the  table.  It  is 
not  in  our  power  to  make  giants  by  means  of 
246 


The  Dwarfs 

an  excess  of  food.  When  the  grub  has 
gorged  to  the  required  degree,  it  ceases  to 
eat. 

There  are  nevertheless  giants  among  the 
Sacred  Beetles.  I  have  some  that  came 
from  Ajaccio  and  Algeria  and  measure  thir- 
ty-four millimetres  l  in  length.  By  com- 
paring this  figure  with  those  already  given, 
we  see  that,  if  the  size  of  the  dwarfs  obtained 
by  fasting  is  represented  by  the  figure  i,  that 
of  the  Sacred  Beetle  of  the  Serignan  district 
is  expressed  by  2  and  that  of  the  Corsican 
and  African  Beetles  by  5. 

To  produce  these  latter,  these  giants,  it  is 
evident  that  a  more  generous  diet  is  needed. 
Whence  comes  this  increase  of  appetite? 
We  whet  ours  with  condiments.  The  insect 
may  well  have  condiments  of  its  own,  for  in- 
stance, as  regards  the  Sacred  Beetle,  the  pep- 
per of  the  sea-breezes  and  the  mustard  of  a 
generous  sun.  Such,  it  seems  to  me,  are  the 
causes  which  augment  the  dimensions  of  the 
African  Scarabaeus  and  reduce  those  of  his 
Serignan  kinsman.  As  I  have  not  these  two 
appetizers,  the  sea  and  the  sun,  at  my  dis- 
posal, I  give  up  the  idea  of  making  giants 
by  an  excess  of  victuals. 

1.126   inch. — Translator's    Note. 
247 


More  Beetles 

Let  us  now  try  the  larvae  which,  not  being 
rationed  by  the  mother,  have  unlimited  abun- 
dance at  their  disposal.  Among  them  are 
the  larvae  of  Cetonia  floricola,  HERBST,  liv- 
ing in  heaps  of  decomposing  leaves.  I  shall 
certainly  never  obtain  giants  from  these  by 
resorting  to  the  artifice  of  a  copious  diet! 
In  a  corner  of  my  garden  they  swarm  in  a 
heap  of  rotten  leaves,  where  they  find  the 
wherewithal  to  satisfy  their  gluttonous  appe- 
tites to  the  full,  without  having  to  hunt  for 
it;  and  yet  I  never  find  an  adult  whose  di- 
mensions are  ever  so  little  exaggerated.  To 
make  him  exceed  the  usual  proportions  it  is 
probable  that  better  climatic  conditions  are 
necessary,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Sacred  Beetle, 
conditions  of  which  I  know  nothing  and 
which,  moreover,  I  should  be  unable  to  real- 
ize. Only  one  experiment  lies  within  my 
power,  that  of  starvation. 

At  the  beginning  of  April,  I  take  three 
batches  of  larvae  of  Cetonia  floricola  chosen 
from  among  those  most  fully  developed  and 
therefore  liable  to  undergo  their  transfor- 
mation during  the  course  of  the  summer. 
At  this  April  season  the  great  hunger  sets  in 
which  doubles  the  size  of  the  grub  and 
amasses  the  reserves  needed  for  the  elabora- 
248 


The  Dwarfs 

tion  of  the  adult.  The  three  batches  are  in- 
stalled in  large  tin  boxes,  carefully  closed, 
in  which  there  is  no  danger  of  too  rapid 
desiccation. 

The  first  batch  consists  of  twelve  grubs, 
which  are  given  an  abundance  of  food,  re- 
newed as  the  need  arises.  My  prisoners 
could  not  be  better  off  in  the  heap  of  leaf- 
mould,  their  favourite  resort. 

Side  by  side  with  this  gastric  paradise,  a 
second  tin,  a  very  inferno  of  starvation,  re- 
ceives a  dozen  larvae  kept  absolutely  without 
food.  It  is  furnished — as,  for  that  matter, 
are  the  others — with  a  litter  of  droppings, 
enabling  the  famished  creatures  to  wander 
about  or  bury  themselves  at  will. 

Lastly,  the  third  batch,  likewise  twelve  in 
number,  receives  from  time  to  time  a  scanty 
pinch  of  rotten  leaves,  enough  at  most  to  be- 
guile their  mandibles  for  a  moment. 

Three  or  four  months  go  by  and,  when  the 
torrid  heats  of  July  have  come,  the  first  tin 
gives  me  the  perfect  insect.  Its  development 
has  been  accomplished  without  a  check:  the 
twelve  grubs  are  succeeded  by  twelve  mag- 
nificent Cetoniae,  resembling  at  all  points 
those  who  sip  and  slumber  in  the  roses  when 
the  spring  comes.  This  result  convinces  me 
249 


More  Beetles 

that  the  defects  attaching  to  rearing  in  con- 
finement have  nothing  to  do  with  what  re- 
mains to  be  told. 

The  second  tin,  in  which  strict  abstinence 
is  enforced,  provides  me  with  two  chrysalids, 
whose  diminished  size  indicates  the  presence 
of  dwarfs.  I  wait  until  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember to  open  these  caskets,  which  remained 
closed  when  those  in  the  first  tin  burst,  two 
months  ago.  Their  persistent  refusal  to 
split  open  is  explained:  each  of  them  contains 
nothing  but  a  dead  larva.  Absolute  starva- 
tion was  too  much  for  the  grubs'  endurance. 
Of  the  twelve  kept  without  food,  ten  shriv- 
elled up  and  eventually  died;  only  two  man- 
aged to  wrap  themselves  in  a  shell,  by  gluing 
the  droppings  round  about  in  the  usual  way. 
This  was  their  last  effort.  The  two  grubs, 
incapable  of  performing  the  consummate 
labour  of  the  nymphosis,  perished  in  their 
turn. 

Lastly,  in  the  third  tin,  where  victuals  were 
very  sparingly  provided,  eleven  grubs  out  of 
twelve  died,  worn  out  with  privation.  One 
only  has  enclosed  itself  in  a  cocoon,  which  is 
correctly  made  but  very  much  reduced  in  size. 
If  there  is  a  living  insect  within,  it  can  only  be 
a  dwarf.  In  the  middle  of  September,  I 
250 


The  Dwarfs 

open  the  cabin  myself,  for  there  is  nothing 
yet,  at  this  late  period,  to  announce  an  im- 
pending natural  fracture. 

The  contents  fill  me  with  delight.  They 
consist  of  a  Cetonia,  alive  and  kicking,  all 
brilliant  with  metallic  gleams  and  streaked 
with  a  few  white  stripes,  like  those  of  the 
species  who  have  developed  freely  in  the 
great  heap  of  earth-mould.  The  shape  and 
costume  are  not  altered  in  any  respect.  As 
for  size,  that  is  another  matter.  I  have  be- 
fore my  eyes  a  pigmy,  a  little  gem  more  ex- 
quisite than  any  collector  ever  found  on  the 
blossoming  hawthorns.  From  the  edge  of 
the  clypeus  to  the  tips  of  the  wing-cases  this 
creature  of  my  artificial  devices  measures 
thirteen  millimetres,1  no  more.  The  insect 
would  have  measured  twenty  millimetres  2  if 
the  grub  had  been  properly  fed,  far  away 
from  my  famine-stricken  tins.  From  these 
figures  we  deduce  that  the  dwarf's  bulk  is 
about  one-fourth  of  what  it  would  have  be- 
come normally,  without  my  interference. 

Of  the  twenty-four  larvae  subjected,  dur- 
ing three  or  four  months,  some  to  an  abso- 
lute fast  and  others  to  a  diet  of  meagre 

!J4   inch.— Translator's  Note. 
2  54  inch. — Translator's  Note. 
251 


More  Beetles 

mouthfuls  administered  at  long  intervals,  one 
only  reached  the  adult  form.  The  bad  ef- 
fects of  abstinence  are  far-reaching  and  the 
pigmy  still  feels  them.  Though  the  season 
when  the  caskets  should  have  split  had  long 
gone  by,  he  had  made  no  attempt  to  free 
himself.  Perhaps  he  had  not  the  necessary 
strength.  I  myself  had  to  break  open  the 
cell. 

Now  that  he  is  free  and  revelling  in  the 
light,  he  kicks  and  struggles  and  starts  run- 
ning, if  I  tease  him  at  all;  but  he  prefers  to 
rest.  One  would  think  that  he  was  over- 
whelmed by  an  insurmountable  lassitude.  I 
know  how  gluttonously  the  Cetoniae  attack 
fruit  at  this  warm  season,  gorging  themselves 
upon  the  sweet  pulp.  I  give  my  dwarf  a 
piece  of  juicy  fig.  He  does  not  touch  it,  pre- 
ferring to  doze.  Is  it  not  yet  time  for  him 
to  eat,  after  his  forcible  liberation?  Was 
the  recluse  intended  to  spend  the  winter  in 
his  shell  before  tasting  the  joys  but  also  risk- 
ing the  dangers  of  the  outer  world?  It  may 
be  so. 

At  any  rate  this  curious  little  creature,  the 

small  Cetonia,  reduced  to  one-fourth  of  the 

regulation   size,    repeats   what    the    Sacred 

Beetle  but  now  taught  us  in  a  less  conclusive 

252 


The  Dwarfs 

fashion,  that,  among  the  insects  and  very 
likely  elsewhere,  dwarfishness  is  the  result  of 
incomplete  nutrition  and  not  in  any  way  the 
effect  of  predisposition. 

Let  us  suppose  an  impossible  case,  or  at 
least  one  extremely  difficult  to  realize ;  let  us 
imagine  that,  having  obtained  by  starvation  a 
few  couples  of  Cetoniae,  we  were  able  to  keep 
them  alive  under  favourable  conditions. 
Would  they  found  a  family?  And  what 
would  their  offspring  be  like  ?  The  insect,  in 
all  probability,  would  not  reply  to  our  ques- 
tion, even  though  entreated  by  long  perse- 
verance ;  but  the  plant  answers  us  readily. 

On  the  paths  in  my  two  acres  of  pebbles, 
at  spots  where  a  little  moisture  lingers,  there 
grows  in  April  a  familiar  plant,  the  whitlow 
grass  (Draba  verna,  LIN.).  There  is  but 
little  nourishment  in  this  ungrateful  trodden 
soil,  hard  with  gravel,  and  the  whitlow  grass 
may  be  regarded  as  the  equivalent  of  my 
famished  Cetoniae.  From  a  flat  pattern  of 
sickly  leaves  rises  a  single  stem,  no  thicker 
than  a  hair,  barely  an  inch  in  height  and  with 
few  ramifications  or  none,  which  neverthe- 
less ripens  its  silicles,  often  reduced  to  one 
alone.  Here,  in  short,  I  have  a  little  garden 
of  dwarf  plants,  the  children  of  dearth. 
253 


More  Beetles 

My  experiments  in  starvation  were  far  from 
obtaining  such  results  with  the  Sacred  Beetle 
and  the  Cetonia. 

I  collect  the  seeds  from  the  heads  of  the 
sickliest  of  these  plants  and  sow  them  in  good 
soil.  Next  spring,  the  dwarfishness  disap- 
pears at  once;  the  direct  descendants  of  the 
abortive  plants  produce  ample  radiating  pat- 
terns, multiple  stalks  reaching  to  a  height  of 
four  inches  or  more  and  numerous  ramifica- 
tions, rich  in  silicles.  The  normal  condition 
has  returned. 

If  they  had  had  enough  energy  to  pro- 
create their  species,  my  dwarf  insects,  result- 
ing from  my  artifices  or  from  a  casual  con- 
course of  enfeebling  circumstances,  would  do 
as  much.  They  would  repeat  what  the  whit- 
low grass  has  told  us:  that  dwarfishness  is 
an  accident  which  heredity  does  not  hand 
down,  any  more  than  it  hands  down  knock- 
knees,  or  bow-legs,  or  the  hunchback's  hump 
or  the  stump  of  the  one-armed  cripple. 


254 


CHAPTER    XII 

SOME   ANOMALIES 

THE  anomalous  is  that  which  forms  an 
exception  to  the  rule,  which  again  is 
based  upon  an  aggregate  of  concordant  facts. 
An  insect  has  six  legs,  each  ending  in  a 
finger.  That  is  the  rule.  Why  six  legs  and 
not  some  other  number?  Why  one  finger 
and  not  several?  Such  questions  are  so  ob- 
viously inane  that  they  do  not  even  occur  to 
our  minds.  The  rule  exists  because  it  does 
exist;  we  note  it  and  that  is  all.  We  remain 
in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  reason  for  its 
existence. 

Anomalies,  on  the  other  hand,  make  us 
uncomfortable  and  upset  all  our  ideas.  Why 
should  there  be  exceptions,  irregularities, 
contradictions  of  the  letter  of  the  law? 
Does  the  sign-manual  of  disorder  leave  its 
imprint  here  and  there?  Is  the  shriek  of 
crazy  discord  heard  amid  the  general  har- 
mony? This  is  a  weighty  question;  and  we 
should  do  well  to  look  into  it  a  little,  though 
255 


More  Beetles 

we  have  little  hope  of  ever  solving  the 
problem. 

Let  us,  to  begin  with,  mention  a  few  of 
these  infractions  of  the  rule.  Among  the 
strangest  that  my  chance  discoveries  have 
submitted  to  my  scrutiny  is  that  of  the  larva 
of  the  Geotrupes.  When  I  made  its  acquaint- 
ance for  the  first  time,  the  crippled  grub  had 
attained  very  nearly  its  full  growth.  One 
might  reasonably  ask  one's  self  whether  cer- 
tain hardships  endured  during  its  lifetime 
had  not  gradually  brought  about  the  weak- 
ness of  the  hind-legs  and  their  abnormal  posi- 
tion; whether,  at  all  events,  the  curious  de- 
formity might  not  be  explained  by  the  grub's 
cramped  situation  in  a  narrow  corridor  in  the 
heart  of  its  food-supply. 

Today  I  am  better-informed.  The  Geo- 
trupes' larva  does  not  gradually  become  lame 
through  straining  itself;  it  is  born  crippled, 
there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  I  observe  its 
hatching.  I  watch  the  new-born  grub 
through  my  magnifying-glass  as  it  leaves  the 
egg.  The  hind-legs  which  the  adult  Beetle 
uses  as  powerful  squeezers  for  pressing  the 
material  which  he  has  gathered  and  making 
it  into  sausages  are  for  the  moment  reduced 
to  the  sorriest  of  appendages,  mere  useless 
256 


Some  Anomalies 

counterfeits.  They  lie  withered  against  the 
larva's  back.  Bent  into  a  hook,  their  ex- 
tremities avoid  the  ground  and  turn  in  to- 
wards the  insect's  back,  without  furnishing 
the  least  support  for  standing.  They  are 
not  legs  but  uncertain  attempts,  awkward  ex- 
periments. 

The  fore-legs,  though  well-shaped,  are  of 
insignificant  dimensions.  The  tiny  creature 
keeps  them  tucked  away  under  the  front  of 
its  body,  where  they  serve  to  hold  in  position 
the  morsel  at  which  it  is  nibbling.  The  mid- 
dle pair,  on  the  contrary,  are  long  and  power- 
ful and  well  in  evidence.  Standing  up  like 
two  stout  crutches,  they  lend  stability  to  the 
fat,  curved  paunch,  which  has  a  tendency  to 
capsize.  When  seen  from  behind,  the  grub 
gives  the  impression  of  being  the  most  whim- 
sical creature  on  earth.  It  is  just  a  pot-belly 
mounted  on  a  pair  of  stilts. 

What  is  the  object  of  this  curious  organi- 
zation? One  can  understand  the  grotesque 
hump  worn  by  the  grub  of  the  Onthophagus, 
the  sugar-loaf  knapsack  whose  weight  is  con- 
stantly overturning  the  little  creature  when  it 
tries  to  change  its  position.  This  hump  is  a 
storehouse  of  cement  for  the  construction  of 
the  cabin  in  which  the  transformation  is  to 
257 


More  Beetles 

take  place.  But  we  cannot  understand  the 
two  withered,  misshapen  legs  of  the  Geo- 
trupes'  grub,  which,  one  would  think,  would 
have  been  very  useful  if  they  had  grown  into 
serviceable  grappling-irons.  The  grub  shifts 
its  position;  it  climbs  up  and  down  inside  its 
tall  column  of  victuals;  it  moves  about  in 
quest  of  morsels  to  suit  it.  Those  two  neg- 
lected supports  would  make  the  climbing 
easier  if  they  were  in  good  condition. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  grub  of  the  Sacred 
Beetle,  confined  in  a  narrow  recess,  has 
hardly  any  need  of  locomotion.  A  simple 
movement  of  the  hinder-part  brings  within 
the  reach  of  its  mandibles  a  fresh  layer  of  the 
victuals  to  be  consumed.  No  matter:  it  is 
blessed  with  six  sound,  well-turned  legs. 
The  cripple  moves  to  and  fro,  the  lusty 
athlete  is  stationary;  the  limping  grub  takes 
its  walks  abroad,  the  nimble  one  sits  still. 
There  is  no  satisfactory  way  of  explaining 
this  paradox. 

In  the  adult  form,  the  Sacred  Beetle  and 
his  kinsfolk,  the  Half-spotted  Scarab,1  the 
broad-necked  Scarab  2  and  the  Pock-marked 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others :  chap,  ii.— «  Trans- 
lator's  Note. 

2  Cf.     idem:    chap.   viii. — Translator's   Note, 

258 


Some  Anomalies 

Scarab  l — the  only  three  that  I  know — are 
likewise  atrophied:  all  of  them  lack  the  tarsi 
of  the  fore-legs.  These  four  witnesses 
prove  to  us  that  this  singular  mutilation  is 
common  to  the  whole  group. 

An  absurd  system  of  nomenclature  has 
seen  fit,  in  its  blindness,  to  substitute  for  the 
ancient  and  venerable  term  of  Scarabaeus  that 
of  Ateuchus,  meaning  weaponless.  The  in- 
ventor of  the  name  was  none  too  well-in- 
spired: there  are  plenty  of  other  Dung- 
beetles  that  have  no  horny  armour,  such  as 
the  Gymnopleuri,2  who  are  so  closely  allied 
to  the  Scarabaei.  Since  his  intention  was  to 
designate  the  genus  by  calling  attention  to  a 
characteristic  peculiarity,  he  should  have 
coined  a  word  meaning,  "deprived  of  tarsi 
on  th,e  fore-legs."  Only  the  Sacred  Beetle 
and  his  kinsfolk,  in  the  whole  of  the  insect- 
world,  could  rightly  bear  that  name.  This 
never  occurred  to  the  nomenclator;  this  im- 
portant detail  was  apparently  unknown  to 
him.  He  saw  the  grain  of  sand  and  did  not 
notice  the  mountain :  a  defect  not  uncommon 
among  the  forgers  of  names. 

For  what  reasons  are  the  Scarabs'  fore- 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others :  chap.  iii. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

2Cf.     idem:  chap.  viii. — Translator's  Note. 
259 


More  Beetles 

legs  bereft  of  that  one  finger,  the  five-jointed 
tarsus,  which  in  itself  represents  the  insect's 
hand?  Why  a  stump,  a  docked  limb,  instead 
of  a  fingered  extremity,  as  is  the  rule  every 
otherwise?  One  reply  suggests  itself  which 
at  first  seems  rather  plausible.  Those  zeal- 
ous pill-rollers  push  their  load  backwards, 
with  their  head  down  and  their  hinder-part 
in  the  air;  they  support  themselves  on  the 
tips  of  their  fore-legs.  The  whole  effort  of 
the  transportation  is  brought  to  bear  on  the 
extremities  of  these  two  levers,  which  are  in 
constant  contact  with  the  rough  ground. 

A  delicate  finger,  liable  to  be  sprained  un- 
der such  conditions,  would  be  a  hindrance, 
wherefore  the  pill-maker  decided  to  do  with- 
out it.  How  and  when  was  the  mutilation 
effected?  Does  it  occur  nowadays,  as  a 
workshop  accident,  during  the  actual  work? 
No,  for  you  never  see  a  Scarab  furnished 
with  tarsi  to  his  fore-legs,  however  new  he 
may  be  at  his  trade;  no,  for  the  nymph,  lying 
perfectly  at  rest  in  its  shell,  has  fingerless 
fore-arms  like  the  adult. 

The  mutilation  dates  farther  back.  Sup- 
pose we  admit  that,  in  the  dim  and  distant 
ages,  a  Scarab,  owing  to  some  mishap,  lost 
those  two  inconvenient  and  almost  super- 
260 


Some  Anomalies 

fluous  fingers.  Finding  himself  all  the  bet- 
ter for  it,  he  transmitted  the  fortunate  de- 
fect to  his  race  by  way  of  an  ancestral  legacy. 
Since  then,  the  Scarabs  form  an  exception  to 
the  rule  that  fore-legs  have  digits  like  the 
rest. 

This  would  be  an  attractive  explanation, 
but  there  are  serious  difficulties  in  the  way. 
We  ask  ourselves  by  what  curious  freak  the 
organism  can  have  elaborated  in  days  long 
past  portions  destined  to  disappear  after- 
wards as  too  cumbrous.  Can  the  plan  of 
the  animal  frame  be  devoid  of  logic,  of  fore- 
sight? Does  it  design  the  structure  blindly, 
at  the  hazard  of  conflicting  circumstances? 

Away  with  such  foolishness!  No,  the 
Scarab  did  not  at  one  time  have  the  tarsi 
which  he  lacks  to-day;  no,  he  did  not  lose 
them  as  the  result  of  being  harnessed  upside 
down  when  rolling  his  pill.  He  is  now  what 
he  always  was.  Who  says  so?  Unim- 
peachable witnesses:  the  Gymnopleurus  and 
the  Sisyphus,1  themselves  enthusiastic  pill- 
rollers.  Like  the  Scarab,  they  push  them 
backwards,  head  down ;  like  the  Scarab,  they 
support  themselves,  during  their  arduous 
task,  on  the  tips  of  their  fore-legs;  and  those 

1  Cf.  The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others:  chap.  xv. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

261 


More  Beetles 

legs,  notwithstanding  their  contact  with  the 
rough  ground,  are  as  perfectly  fingered  as  the 
others :  they  possess  the  delicate  tarsi  which 
the  Scarab  is  denied.  Then  why  should  the 
latter  prove  an  exception  to  what  in  the 
others  is  the  rule?  How  gladly  would  I 
welcome  a  word  from  the  discerning  person 
who  could  answer  my  humble  question ! 

My  satisfaction  would  be  equally  great  if 
I  knew  why  the  Iris-weevil's  l  tarsus  has  a 
single  nail,  whereas  the  other  insects  have 
two,  set  side  by  side  and  bent  into  a  hook. 
Why  was  one  of  these  two  little  claws  sup- 
pressed? Would  it  not  have  been  useful 
to  the  insect?  One  would  think  so.  The 
little  Weevil  thus  mutilated  is  a  climber;  she 
clambers  up  the  smooth  stems  of  the  iris;  she 
explores  the  flowers,  visiting  the  lower  sur- 
face of  the  petals  as  well  as  the  upper;  she 
walks  upside  down  on  the  slippery  pods. 
An  extra  hook  would  do  much  to  ensure  her 
steadiness;  yet  the  thoughtless  Weevil  de- 
prives herself  of  it,  though  by  law  she  has  a 
right  to  the  double  claw  invariably  wielded 
by  the  others,  even  in  her  own  long-nosed 
clan.  What  then  is  the  secret  of  the  little 
Iris-weevil's  missing  finger-nail? 

i  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Weevil:  chap,  xiv.— Translator's 
Note. 

262 


Some  Anomalies 

A  tiny  claw  the  less,  though  a  serious  busi- 
ness where  matters  of  principle  are  con- 
cerned, is  after  all  a  detail  of  no  great  ma- 
terial value;  one  needs  a  lens  to  perceive  the 
irregularity.  But  heie  is  something  that  the 
eye  can  see  without  the  aid  of  the  magnify- 
ing-glass. 

A  Locust  from  the  green  slopes  of  the 
Alps,  Pezzotettyx  pedestris,1  who  dwells  on 
the  higher  ridges  of  Mont  Ventoux?  renoun- 
ces her  right  to  wings  of  any  kind;  she 
reaches  the  adult  stage  while  preserving  the 
larval  formation.  The  approach  of  the  wed- 
ding-day makes  her  a  little  handsomer,  adds 
a  touch  of  coral-red  to  her  sturdy  thighs  and 
of  sky-blue  to  her  shanks;  but  there  all  pro- 
gress stops.  She  becomes  ripe  for  marriage 
and  maternity  without  acquiring  the  power  of 
flying  which  the  other  Acridians  possess  in 
addition  to  that  of  leaping. 

Among  the  hoppers,  all  endowed  with 
wings  and  wing-cases,  she  remains  a  clumsy 
pedestrian,  as  her  Latin  affix,  pedestris,  in- 
forms us.  Nevertheless,  the  cripple  bears 

1  The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:  chap.  xvii. — Transla- 
tor's  Note. 

2  The  highest  mountain  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Serig- 
nan;   6,268  feet.     Cf.   The  Hunting  Wasps:  by  J.  Henri 
Fabre,    translated    by    Alexander    Teixeira    de    Mattos: 
chap.   xi. — Translator's  Note. 

263 


More  Beetles 

on  her  shoulders  a  pair  of  skimpy  sheaths 
which  contain  the  organs  of  flight,  incapable 
of  unfolding.  By  what  curious  evolutionary 
whim  is  the  pretty  Locust  with  the  azure  legs 
deprived  of  the  wings  and  wing-cases  of 
which  she  carries  the  germs  in  two  miserable 
little  bundles?  She  is  promised  the  gift  of 
flight  and  does  not  receive  it.  For  no  ap- 
preciable reason,  the  wheels  of  the  animal 
mechanism  are  arrested. 

Stranger  still  is  the  case  of  the  Psyches, 
whose  females,  unable  to  become  the  Moths 
promised  in  their  early  stages,  remain  cater- 
pillars, or  rather  change  into  wallets  stuffed 
with  eggs.  Wings  with  gorgeous  scales,  the 
supreme  prerogative  of  Moth  and  Butterfly, 
are  denied  them.  The  males  alone  achieve 
the  promised  shape;  they  turn  into  plumed 
dandies,  clad  in  black  velvet,  and  are  excel- 
lent flyers.  Why  does  one — and  that  one 
the  more  important — of  the  sexes  remain  a 
wretched  little  sausage,  while  the  other  is 
made  glorious  by  the  metamorphosis? 

And  now  what  are  we  to  say  of  the  next, 
Necydalis  major,  a  denizen  of  the  poplar  and 
the  willow  in  his  larval  state?  He  is  a  Lon- 
gicorn,  fairly  imposing  in  size  as  compared 
with  Cerambyx  cerdo,  the  little  Capricorn  of 
264 


Some  Anomalies 

the  hawthorn.  When  one  is  a  Beetle — and 
that  he  assuredly  is — one  dons  wing-cases 
which  form  a  sheath,  enclosing  the  body  and 
protecting  the  delicate  wings  and  the  soft  and 
vulnerable  abdomen.  The  Necydalis  laughs 
at  rules.  He  wears  on  his  shoulders,  by 
way  of  wing-cases,  two  short  pieces  which 
make  him  an  inadequate  jacket.  It  really 
looks  as  though  there  were  not  sufficient 
stuff  to  lengthen  out  the  coat  and  give  it  a 
pair  of  tails  capable  of  covering  that  which 
ought  to  be  covered. 

Beyond  it  stretch,  entirely  unprotected, 
two  large  wings  reaching  to  the  tip  of  the 
abdomen.  At  first  sight,  you  would  think 
that  you  had  before  your  eyes  some  sort  of 
huge,  fantastic  Wasp.  Why,  in  an  actual 
Beetle,  this  niggardly  provision  of  wing- 
cases?  Can  the  material  have  run  short? 
Was  the  cost  of  prolonging  the  protective 
sheath  begun  at  the  shoulders  too  great? 
We  stand  amazed  at  such  meanness. 

What  again  shall  we  say  of  this  other 
Beetle,  Myodites  subdipterus?  Her  grub 
establishes  itself,  I  know  not  how,  in  the  cells 
of  Halictus  zebra  l  and  battens  on  the  nymph 

1  A  wild  Bee.     Cf.  Bramble-dwellers  and  Others,  by  J. 
Henri  Fabre,  translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mat- 
tos:  chaps,  xii.  to  xiv. — Translator's  Note. 
265 


More  Beetles 

that  owns  the  premises.  The  adult  fre- 
quents in  summer  the  prickly  heads  of  the 
field  eringo.  To  look  at  her,  you  would  take 
her  for  a  Dipteron,  for  a  Fly,  because  of  her 
two  big  wings  uncovered  by  wing-cases.  Ex- 
amine her  more  closely  and  you  will  see  that 
she  carries  on  her  shoulders  two  small  scales, 
all  that  remains  of  the  suppressed  wing-cases. 
She  is  yet  another  who  has  not  known  how 
or  rather  has  not  been  able  to  complete  the 
parts  of  which  she  carries  these  absurd 
rudiments. 

An  entire  group,  one  of  the  most  numer- 
ous among  the  Beetles,  that  of  the  Staphylini, 
or  Rove-beetles,  cuts  down  its  wing-cases  to 
a  third  or  a  quarter  of  the  normal  dimen- 
sions. With  excessive  economy,  the  insect 
with  the  long,  wriggling  belly  makes  itself 
unsightly  and  goes  too  scantily  clad. 

I  might  continue  for  a  long  time  to  enu- 
merate the  deformed,  the  irregular,  the  ex- 
ceptional; the  "whys"  would  follow  close 
upon  one  another  and  no  reply  would  be 
forthcoming.  Animals  are  uncommunicative; 
plants,  when  cunningly  entreated,  lend  them- 
selves better  to  enquiry.  Let  us  consult 
them  on  this  problem  of  anomalies;  perhaps 
they  will  tell  us  something. 
266 


Some  Anomalies 

The  rose-tree  sets  us  this  puzzle  : 

"We  are  five  brothers;   two   of  us   have 

beards,  two  have  none  and  the  fifth  has  half 

a  beard." 

The  case  has  even  been  stated  in  a  Latin 

couplet : 

Quinque   sumus  fratres:   unus    barbatus    et 

alter; 
Imberbesque  duo;  sum  semiberbis  ego. 

Who  are  the  five  brothers?  None  other 
than  the  five  lobes  of  the  rose's  calyx,  the 
five  sepals.  Let  us  examine  them  one  by  one. 
We  shall  find  two  of  them  furnished  on  both 
edges  with  leafy  or  beard-like  appendages, 
which  sometimes  revert  to  the  original  form 
and  expand  into  folicles  similar  to  those  of 
the  leaves  proper.  Botany  in  fact  teaches 
us  that  a  sepal  is  a  modified  leaf.  These  are 
the  two  brothers  with  beards. 

We  shall  see  two  others  totally  devoid  of 
appendages  on  either  side.  These  are  the 
two  brothers  without  beards.  Lastly,  the 
fifth  will  show  us  one  bare  and  one  bearded 
surface.  This  one  represents  the  brother 
with  half  a  beard. 

These  are  not  casual  variations,  differing 
from  flower  to  flower;  all  the  roses  present 
267 


More  Beetles 

the  same  arrangement,  all  have  their  sepals 
divided  into  three  classes  in  the  matter  of 
beards.  It  is  a  fixed  rule,  resulting  from  a 
law  which  governs  floral  architecture,  even 
as  the  art  of  a  Vitruvius  l  governs  our  build- 
ings. This  law,  so  elegant  in  its  simplicity, 
is  thus  stated  in  botany:  in  the  quinary  order, 
the  most  important  order  of  the  vegetable 
world,  the  flower  groups  the  five  portions 
of  a  whorl  at  intervals  upon  a  close  spiral, 
almost  equivalent  to  the  circumference  of  a 
circle;  and  this  arrangement  is  so  contrived 
that  two  turns  of  the  spiral  contain  the  series 
of  five  parts. 

Having  said  this,  it  is  easy  to  construct 
the  plan  of  the  rose,  in  so  far  as  concerns  the 
calyx.  Divide  a  circumference  into  five 
equal  parts.  At  the  first  dividing-point, 
place  a  sepal.  Where  shall  we  put  the  sec- 
ond? It  must  not  be  at  the  second  dividing- 
point,  for  then  the  set  of  five  pieces  would 
fill  the  circumference  in  a  single  revolution, 
instead  of  in  two.  We  shall  place  it  at  the 
third  point  and  continue  in  like  fashion,  each 
time  missing  one  division.  This  mode  of 
progress  is  the  only  one  that  brings  us  back 

1  Marcus  Vitruvius  Pollio  (ft.  sub  Augusta),  author  of 
De  Architectura. — Translator's  Note. 
268 


Some  Anomalies 

to  the  starting-point  after  two  turns  of  the 
spiral. 

Let  us  now  give  the  sepals  a  base  wide 
enough  to  provide  a  tightly  closed  containing 
wall.  We  shall  see  that  the  parts  on  sections 
i  and  3  are  completely  outside  the  spiral; 
that  the  parts  on  sections  2  and  4  have  their 
two  edges  fitting  under  the  adjoining  sepals; 
and  that,  lastly,  the  part  on  section  5  has  one 
edge  covered  and  one  free.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  manifest  that,  hampered  in  their 
expansion  by  the  petal  placed  over  them,  the 
edges  caught  under  the  others  cannot  send 
forth  their  delicate  appendages.  Hence  we 
have  the  two  bearded  sepals  at  points  i  and 
3,  the  two  beardless  sepals  at  points  2  and  4 
and  the  half-bearded  sepal  at  point  5. 

This  explains  the  riddle  of  the  rose.  The 
disparity  of  the  five  pieces  of  the  calyx,  ap- 
parently an  irrational  structure,  a  capricious 
anomaly,  is  really  the  corollary  of  a  mathe- 
matical law,  the  natural  consequence  of  an 
immanent  algebraical  relation.  Disorder  is 
eloquent  of  order;  irregularity  bears  evi- 
dence of  a  ruling  principle. 

Let  us  continue    our    excursion    into    the 
realm  of  the  plants.     The  quinary  order  al- 
lots to  the  flower  five  petals  arranged  in  a 
269 


More  Beetles 

whorl  of  perfect  accuracy.  Well,  a  good 
many  corollas  depart  from  the  normal  group- 
ing, as  instance  the  labiate  and  the  personate 
corollas.  In  the  former,  five  lobes  compose 
the  limb  expanding  at  the  end  of  a  tubular 
portion  and  represent  the  five  regulation 
petals.  They  are  arranged  in  two  wide- 
open  lips,  one  pointing  upwards  and  one 
downwards.  The  upper  lip  has  two  lobes, 
the  lower  three. 

The  personate  corolla  likewise  is  divided 
into  two  lips,  the  upper  having  two  lobes, 
the  lower  three;  only,  the  latter  is  expanded 
into  an  arch  that  closes  the  entrance  to  the 
flower.  A  pressure  of  the  fingers  on  the 
sides  opens  the  two  lips,  which  close  again 
as  soon  as  the  pressure  ceases.  Hence  a 
certain  resemblance  to  the  jaws — the  mufle 
or  gueule — of  an  animal,  a  resemblance 
which  has  earned  for  the  plant  in  which  this 
formation  is  most  clearly  seen,  the  name  of 
Snapdragon,  muflier  or  gueule-de-loup.  A 
certain  analogy  has  also  been  drawn  between 
the  appearance  of  the  two  thick  lips  of  the 
snapdragon  and  the  exaggerated  features  of 
the  masks,  or  persona,  with  which  the  actors 
in  the  ancient  theatres  used  to  cover  their 
faces  to  represent  the  characters  whom  they 
270 


Some  Anomalies 

were  playing.  Hence  the  expression  "per- 
sonate corolla." 

The  anomaly  of  the  two-lipped  corolla  en- 
tails modifications  in  the  stamens,  which  have 
to  adapt  themselves  to  the  exigencies  of  the 
space  enclosed,  which  is  narrower  at  one 
point  and  roomier  at  another.  Of  the  five 
stamens,  one  is  suppressed,  while  often  leav- 
ing a  vestige  at  its  base,  as  a  certificate  that 
it  was  once  there.  The  four  others  are 
grouped  into  two  pairs  of  unequal  length, 
with  a  tendency  to  the  suppression  of  the  les- 
ser pair. 

The  sage  achieves  this  suppression.  It 
lias  only  two  stamens,  those  of  the  longer 
pair.  Moreover,  on  each  of  the  staminal 
filaments  it  preserves  only  half  an  anther. 
According  to  the  rule  in  the  vast  majority  of 
cases,  an  anther  consists  of  two  compart- 
ments, placed  back  to  back  and  separated 
by  a  slender  partition,  known  as  the  connec- 
tive. The  sage  exaggerates  the  size  of  this 
connective  and  makes  of  it  the  beam  of  a 
balance  placed  crosswise  on  the  filament. 
At  the  end  of  one  arm  of  this  beam  is  the  half 
of  an  anther,  that  is  to  say,  a  pollen-sac;  at 
the  other  end  is  nothing.  The  whole  of  the 
staminal  verticil,  all  save  that  which  is  strictly 
271 


More  Beetles 

necessary,  is  sacrificed  to  the  beautiful 
strangeness  of  the  corolla. 

Now  why  do  the  Labiatae,  the  Personatae 
and  other  vegetable  orders  present  these 
anomalies  which  completely  disarrange  the 
regular  structure  of  the  flower?  Let  us  in 
this  connection  venture  upon  an  architectural 
comparison.  The  first  men  who  ventured  to 
balance  heavy  hewn  stones  over  empty  space, 
thereby  deserving  the  proud  title  of  pontifex, 
or  bridge-builder,  took  as  the  pattern  of 
their  fabric  the  semicircular  arch,  which  rests 
the  thrust  of  the  load  on  uniform  voussoirs. 
The  result  is  strong  and  majestic,  but  also 
monotonous  and  lacking  in  elegance. 

Next  came  the  pointed  arch,  which  op- 
poses two  arcs  described  from  different  cen- 
tres. With  the  new  type,  soaring  curves, 
slender  ribs  and  magnificent  superstructures 
are  possible.  Variety,  inexhaustible  in  its 
graceful  combinations,  replaces  monotony. 

Well,  the  regular  corolla  is,  so  to  speak, 
the  semicircular  arch  of  the  flower.  Whether 
campanulate,  rotate,  urceolate,  stellate,  or 
of  any  other  shape,  it  is  always  a  grouping 
of  similar  parts  around  a  circumference. 
The  irregular  corolla  is  the  ogive,  with  its 
wonderful  audacities;  it  lends  to  the  poetry 
272 


Some  Anomalies 

of  the  flower  the  admired  disorder  of  all  true 
poetry.  The  thick-lipped  mask  of  the  snap- 
dragon, the  gaping  jaws  of  the  sage  are  every 
whit  as  effective  as  the  rosette  of  the  haw- 
thorn or  the  sloe.  They  a  e  so  many  chro- 
matic notes  added  to  the  gamut,  so  many 
charming  variations  upon  one  glorious 
theme,  so  many  discords  that  enhance  the 
value  of  the  harmonies.  The  floral  sym- 
phony gains  if  interrupted  by  occasional 
solos. 

The  Pedestrian  Locust,  hopping  among 
the  saxifrage  amid  the  lofty  summits  of  the 
hills,  explains  his  incapacity  to  fly  by  reasons 
of  a  like  order;  so  does  the  Staphylinus  his 
skimpy  jacket,  the  Necydalis  his  short  coat, 
the  Myodites  her  Fly-like  aspect.  Each 
after  his  fashion  varies  the  monotony  of  the 
general  theme;  each  strikes  a  special  note  in 
the  universal  concert.  It  is  not  so  easy  to 
see  why  the  Scarab  abandons  his  fore-tarsi, 
why  the  Iris-beetle  has  only  one  claw  to  her 
fingers,  why  the  Geotrupes-grub  is  born  mu- 
tilated. To  what  are  these  minute  aberra- 
tions due?  Before  answering,  let  us  once 
again  take  counsel  with  the  plant. 

One  of  the  inmates  of  our  hothouses  is 
the  Alstrcemeria  pelegrina,  or  Inca  lily,  a 
273 


More  Beetles 

native  of  Peru.  This  curious  plant  sets  us 
a  puzzling  problem.  At  the  first  glance,  its 
leaves,  shaped  more  or  less  like  those  of  the 
willow,  offer  nothing  that  deserves  attentive 
examination;  but  look  at  them  more  closely. 
The  leaf-stalk,  flattened  into  a  ribbon  of 
some  length,  is  tightly  twisted  upon  itself; 
and  the  twist  is  repeated  on  every  one  of  the 
leaves.  From  one  end  of  the  plant  to  the 
other  we  find  this  clearly-marked  torsion. 

Delicately,  with  the  tips  of  our  fingers,  let 
us  re-establish  the  natural  order  of  affairs 
and  spread  out  flat  the  ribbon  of  the  twisted 
leaf-stalk.  A  surprise  awaits  us.  The  un- 
twisted ribbon,  replaced  in  its  normal  posi- 
tion, is  upside  down;  it  shows  on  the  top  what 
ought  to  be  underneath,  that  is  to  say,  the 
pale  surface,  rich  in  stomata  and  deeply 
veined;  it  shows  underneath  what  ought  to 
be  on  top,  that  is  to  say,  the  green,  smooth 
surface,  as  is  the  rule  with  all  other  plants. 

In  short,  the  Inca  lily,  when  we  forcibly 
restore  the  natural  arrangement  by  undoing 
its  torsions,  has  its  leaves  upside  down. 
What  was  made  for  the  shadow  faces  the 
light,  what  was  made  for  the  light  faces  the 
shadow.  In  this  contrary  arrangement,  the 
functions  of  the  leaves  become  impossible; 
274 


Some  Anomalies 

and  so  the  plant,  to  correct  this  defective 
order,  twists  the  necks  of  all  its  leaves  by 
the  spiral  deformation  of  the  leaf-stalks. 

The  rays  of  the  sun  provoke  this  reversal. 
If  we  intervene  with  our  artificial  devices, 
they  may  undo  what  they  did  at  first.  With 
the  aid  of  a  light  prop  and  a  few  ligatures, 
I  bend  a  shoot  of  the  lily  and  fix  it  head  down- 
wards. As  a  result  of  exposure  to  the  sun, 
the  leaf-stalks  in  a  few  days'  time  untwist 
themselves  and  become  flat  ribbons,  which 
turn  their  smooth,  green  sides  towards  the 
light  and  their  pale,  veined  surface  towards 
the  shade.  The  torsion  has  disappeared, 
the  normal  direction  of  the  leaves  is  restored, 
but  the  plant  is  upside  down. 

In  the  case  of  the  Inca  lily,  with  its  leaves 
set  the  wrong  way  round  on  the  stem,  are  we 
confronted  with  a  blunder  which  the  plant, 
aided  by  the  sun,  does  its  best  to  correct  by 
twisting  its  leaf-stalks?  Are  there  such 
things  as  organic  frivolity,  mistakes,  the  sig- 
nature of  disorder?  Is  it  not  rather  our 
ignorance  of  cause  and  effect  which  regards 
as  erroneous  what  is  actually  correct?  If 
our  knowledge  were  greater,  how  many  dis- 
cordant notes  would  become  harmonious! 
And  so  the  wisest  course  is  to  doubt. 
275 


More  Beetles 

Of  all  the  signs  which  we  employ  in  writ- 
ing, the  one  most  nearly  resembling  the  idea 
which  it  expresses  is  the  note  of  interroga- 
tion. At  the  bottom,  a  round  speck :  the  ball 
of  the  world.  Above  it,  twisted  into  a  great 
crozier,  is  the  lituus  of  antiquity,  the  augur's 
wand  interrogating  the  unknown.  I  like  to 
regard  this  sign  as  the  emblem  of  science  in 
perpetual  colloquy  with  the  how  and  why  of 
things. 

Now,  high  as  it  may  rise  to  obtain  a  bet- 
ter view,  this  questioning  staff  is  surrounded 
by  a  narrow  and  obscure  horizon,  which 
future  investigations  will  replace  by  other 
horizons  more  remote  and  no  less  obscure. 
Beyond  all  these  horizons,  laboriously  torn 
asunder,  one  by  one,  by  the  progress  of 
knowledge,  beyond  all  this  obscurity,  what 
is  there  ?  Assuredly,  the  broad  light  of  day, 
the  wherefore  of  the  why,  the  reason  of  rea- 
sons, in  short  the  great  x  of  the  world's  equa- 
tion. So  says  our  questioning  instinct,  ever 
dissatisfied,  never  weary;  and  instinct,  which 
is  infallible  in  the  animal  domain,  should  be 
no  less  so  in  the  domain  of  the  mind. 

So  far  as  lies  in  my  power,  I  have  sought 
to  discern  the  essential  motives  of  the  insect's 
anomalies.  By  no  means  always  has  the 
276 


Some  Anomalies 

answer  brought  a  firm  conviction.  And  so, 
to  end  this  chapter,  in  which  so  many 
glimpses  remain  shrouded  in  doubt,  I  set 
here,  plain  to  see,  in  the  middle  of  the  page, 
the  augur's  lituus,  the  note  of  interrogation : 


277 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE   GOLD   BEETLES  :   THEIR   FOOD 

A  S  I  write  the  first  lines  of  this  chapter, 
*"  ^  I  think  of  the  Chicago  slaughter-yards. 
Those  horrible  meat-factories  where,  in  the 
course  of  the  year,  men  cut  up  over  a  million 
Bullocks  and  nearly  two  million  Pigs,  which, 
entering  the  factory  alive,  come  out  at  the 
other  end  changed  into  tins  of  preserved 
meat,  lard,  sausages  and  rolled  hams.  I 
think  of  them  because  the  Carabus,  or 
Ground-beetle,  is  about  to  show  us  a  similar 
swiftness  in  butchery. 

I  have  twenty-five  Gold-beetles  (Carabus 
auratus,  LIN.)  in  a  large  glass  vivarium.  At 
present  they  are  motionless,  cowering  under 
a  bit  of  board  which  I  gave  them  as  a  shelter. 
With  their  bellies  cooled  by  the  sand  and 
their  backs  warmed  by  the  board,  which  is 
visited  by  the  searching  rays  of  the  sun,  they 
slumber  and  digest  their  food.  By  good 
luck  I  chance  upon  a  procession  of  Pine-cater- 
pillars l  descending  from  their  tree  in  search 

1  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar:  chaps,  i.  to  vi.— 
Translator's  Note. 

278 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

of  a  favourable  spot  for  burial,  the  prelude 
to  the  underground  cocoon.  Here  is  an  ex- 
cellent herd  for  the  slaughter-house  of  the 
Carabi. 

I  collect  them  and  place  them  in  the  viva- 
rium. The  procession  soon  forms  again; 
the  caterpillars,  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  in 
number,  move  in  an  undulating  line.  They 
pass  near  the  piece  of  board,  in  single  file, 
like  the  Pigs  at  Chicago.  This  is  the  pro- 
pitious moment.  I  let  slip  my  wild  animals, 
that  is  to  say,  I  remove  their  shelter. 

The  sleepers  forthwith  awaken,  scenting 
the  rich  prey  defiling  close  at  hand.  One  of 
them  runs  forward;  three  or  four  others  fol- 
low, arousing  the  whole  assembly;  those  who 
are  buried  emerge;  the  whole  band  of  cut- 
throats falls  upon  the  passing  herd.  Then 
comes  an  unforgettable  sight.  The  mandi- 
bles get  to  work  in  all  directions;  the  pro- 
cession is  attacked  in  the  van,  in  the  rear,  in 
the  middle;  the  victims  are  assailed  in  the 
back  or  the  belly  at  random.  The  hairy 
skins  are  ripped  open,  their  contents  escape 
in  a  rush  of  entrails  green  with  the  pine- 
needles  that  constitute  the  food;  the  cater- 
pillars writhe  convulsively  and  lash  out  with 
their  tails,  suddenly  coiling  and  uncoiling, 
279 


More  Beetles 

clinging  with  their  feet,  dribbling  and  biting. 
Those  as  yet  unscathed  dig  desperately  in  an 
attempt  to  take  refuge  underground.  Not 
one  succeeds.  They  are  hardly  half-way 
down  before  the  Carabus  hastens  up,  pulls 
them  out  and  rips  them  open. 

If  the  butchery  were  not  occurring  in  a 
dumb  world,  we  should  have  all  the  fright- 
ful hubbub  of  the  Chicago  massacres.  But 
it  needs  the  ear  of  the  imagination  to  hear 
the  shrieks  and  lamentations  of  the  eviscer- 
ated. This  ear  I  possess;  and  I  am  seized 
with  remorse  for  having  provoked  such  suf- 
ferings. 

The  Beetles  are  now  rummaging  every- 
where in  the  heap  of  dead  and  dying,  each 
tugging  and  tearing  at  a  morsel  which  he 
carries  off  to  swallow  privately,  away  from 
envious  eyes.  After  this  mouthful,  another 
is  hurriedly  cut  off  the  carcase,  followed  by 
more  still,  as  long  as  any  dismembered  bodies 
remain.  In  a  few  minutes  the  procession  is 
reduced  to  a  few  shreds  of  still  quivering 
flesh. 

There  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  cater- 
pillars; the  butchers  are  twenty-five.  This 
makes  six  victims  to  each  Carabus.  If  the 
insect  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  kill  indef- 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

initely,  like  the  labourers  in  the  meat-fac- 
tories, and  if  the  staff  consisted  of  a  hundred 
disembowellers,  a  very  modest  figure  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  ham-boners,  the  total 
number  of  victims,  in  a  ten  hours'  day,  would 
be  thirty-six  thousand.  No  Chicago  can- 
nery ever  achieved  such  an  output. 

The  speed  of  the  assassination  is  even 
more  remarkable  when  we  consider  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  attack.  The  Carabus  has 
nothing  like  the  endless  chain  which  seizes  the 
Pig  by  one  leg,  hoists  it  up  and  swings  it 
along  to  the  butcher's  knife;  he  has  nothing 
like  the  sliding  plank  which  brings  the  Bul- 
lock's forehead  beneath  the  slaughterer's 
mallet;  he  has  to  fall  upon  his  prey,  over- 
power it  and  steer  clear  of  its  tusks  and 
claws.  Moreover,  what  he  disembowels  he 
eats  on  the  spot.  What  a  massacre  it  would 
be  if  the  insect  had  nothing  to  do  but  kill ! 

What  do  we  learn  from  the  Chicago 
slaughter-houses  and  the  Gold-beetle's  feast- 
ing? This:  the  man  of  lofty  morals  is  now- 
adays a  rather  rare  exception.  Under  the 
skin  of  the  civilized  being  we  nearly  always 
find  the  ancestor,  the  savage  contemporary 
with  the  Cave-bear.  True  humanity  does 
not  yet  exist;  it  is  being  very  gradually 
281 


More  Beetles 

formed  by  the  leaven  of  the  centuries  and 
the  lessons  of  conscience;  it  is  progressing 
towards  better  things  with  heart-breaking 
slowness. 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  slavery  disap- 
peared, the  foundation  of  the  ancient  com- 
munity, and  that  people  perceived  that  a 
man,  even  though  black,  is  really  a  man  and 
as  such  deserving  of  consideration. 

What  was  woman  in  the  old  days?  What 
she  still  is  in  the  East:  a  pretty  little  animal 
without  a  soul.  The  question  was  discussed 
at  great  length  by  the  scholars.  The  great 
seventeenth-century  bishop  Bossuet 1  him- 
self, looked  upon  woman  as  the  diminutive 
of  man.  The  proof  lay  in  the  origin  of  Eve  : 
she  was  the  superfluous  bone,  the  thirteenth 
rib  which  Adam  had  in  the  beginning.  It 
has  at  last  been  admitted  that  woman  pos- 
sesses a  soul  similar  to  our  own  and  even  its 
superior  in  tenderness  and  devotion.  She 
has  been  permitted  to  educate  herself,  which 
she  does  with  a  zeal  at  least  equal  to  that  of 
her  rival.  But  the  law,  that  gloomy  cavern 
which  is  still  the  lurking-place  of  so  many 

1  Jacques  Benigne  Bossuet,  Bishop  of  Meaux  (1627- 
1704), — author  of  many  famous  religious,  historical  and 
political  works. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

barbarities,  continues  to  regard  her  as  incom- 
petent, as  a  minor. 

The  abolition  of  slavery  and  the  education 
of  women  are  two  enormous  strides  upon  the 
path  of  moral  progress.  Our  grand- 
children will  go  further.  They  will  see, 
with  a  clear  vision,  capable  of  piercing  every 
obstacle,  that  war  is  the  most  absurd  of  our 
eccentricities;  that  conquerors,  fighters  of 
battles  and  despoilers  of  nations  are  exe- 
crable scourges;  that  a  hand-shake  is  better 
than  a  rifle-bullet;  that  the  happiest  people 
is  not  that  which  possesses  the  most  artillery 
but  that  which  labours  in  peace  and  produces 
abundantly;  and  that  the  amenities  of  ex- 
istence do  not  positively  clamour  for  fron- 
tiers, beyond  which  the  vexatious  custom- 
house-officer awaits  us,  searching  our  pockets 
and  plundering  our  luggage. 

They  will  see  all  this,  our  grandsons,  and 
many  other  wonders  which  to-day  rank  as 
crazy  dreams.  Whither  will  it  lead  us,  this 
ascent?  Towards  the  blue  skies  of  the 
ideal?  To  no  very  great  height,  I  fear. 
We  are  afflicted  with  an  indelible  taint,  a 
sort  of  original  sin,  if  we  may  give  the  name 
of  sin  to  a  state  of  affairs  in  which  our  free 
will  plays  no  part.  We  are  built  that  way 
283 


More  Beetles 

and  we  cannot  help  it.  It  is  the  taint  of  the 
belly,  that  inexhaustible  source  of  brutality. 

The  intestine  rules  the  world.  In  the 
midst  of  our  gravest  affairs  the  question  of 
bread  and  butter  rises  imperious.  So  long 
as  there  are  stomachs  that  digest — and  as  yet 
we  see  no  possibility  of  dispensing  with  them 
— we  must  have  the  wherewithal  to  satisfy 
them  and  the  strong  will  live  by  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  weak.  Life  is  an  abyss  which 
only  death  can  fill.  Hence  endless  butch- 
eries, on  which  man,  Gold-beetles  and  others 
feed;  hence  the  perpetual  massacres  that 
have  made  of  the  world  a  slaughter-house 
beside  which  those  of  Chicago  hardly  count. 

But  the  feasters  are  legion  and  the  victuals 
are  not  abundant  in  proportion.  Those  who 
have  not  envy  those  who  have ;  the  famished 
show  their  teeth  to  the  sated.  Then  fol- 
lows the  battle  for  the  right  of  possession. 
Man  raises  armies  to  defend  his  harvests, 
his  cellars,  his  granaries;  and  this  is  war. 
Shall  we  ever  see  the  end  of  it?  Alas  and 
seven  times  alas!  So  long  as  there  are 
Wolves  in  the  world,  there  must  be  Sheep- 
dogs to  defend  the  flock ! 

Carried  away  by  our  thoughts,  we  have 
left  our  Beetles  far  behind.  Let  us  hurry 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

back  to  them.  What  was  my  reason  for 
provoking  the  massacre  of  the  Procession- 
aries  who  were  on  the  point  of  quietly  bury- 
ing themselves  when  I  confronted  them  with 
their  butchers?  Was  it  to  enjoy  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  frantic  massacre?  Certainly  not: 
I  have  always  pitied  the  sufferings  of  ani- 
mals; and  the  life  of  the  smallest  is  worthy 
of  respect.  To  overcome  that  compassion, 
the  demands  of  scientific  research  were 
needed;  and  these  are  sometimes  cruel. 

I  had  in  view  the  habits  of  the  Gold-bee- 
tle, the  little  ranger  of  our  gardens  who,  for 
this  reason,  is  popularly  known  as  the  Gar- 
dener. How  far  does  he  deserve  to  be 
called  a  helper?  What  does  the  Carabus 
hunt?  Of  what  vermin  does  he  rid  our 
flower-beds?  We  have  seen  a  promising 
start  made  with  the  Pine  Processionary. 
Let  us  continue  in  the  same  direction. 

On  various  occasions  late  in  April,  the 
enclosure  provides  me  with  processions,  now 
longer,  now  shorter.  I  capture  them  and 
place  them  in  the  glass  vivarium.  No 
sooner  is  the  banquet  served  than  the  feast- 
ing begins.  The  caterpillars  are  ripped 
open,  by  a  single  consumer  or  by  several  at 
one  time.  In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  the 
285 


More  Beetles 

herd  is  completely  exterminated.  Nothing 
remains  but  shapeless  lumps,  which  are 
carried  hither  and  thither  to  be  consumed 
under  the  shelter  of  the  board.  The  well- 
provided  Beetle  decamps,  with  his  booty  in 
his  teeth,  anxious  to  feast  in  peace.  He  is 
met  by  companions  who,  enticed  by  the  mor- 
sel dangling  from  the  fugitive's  jaws,  turn 
highwaymen.  First  two,  then  three  try  to 
rob  the  lawful  owner.  Each  grabs  the  frag- 
ment, tugs  at  it,  proceeds  to  swallow  it  with- 
out serious  dispute.  There  is  no  actual  bat- 
tle, no  exchange  of  bites  as  with  Dogs  dis- 
puting a  bone.  Everything  is  confined  to 
attempts  at  theft.  If  the  owner  retains  his 
hold,  they  all  eat  peacefully  in  common,  man- 
dibles touching  mandibles,  until  the  piece  is 
torn  apart  and  each  retires  with  his  shred. 

The  Pine  Processionary,  seasoned  with 
that  stinging  poison  which,  during  my  earlier 
investigations,  brought  out  such  a  violent 
rash  upon  my  skin,  must  be  a  very  pungent 
dish.  My  Carabi  thoroughly  enjoy  it.  The 
more  processions  I  provide,  the  more  they 
consume.  The  fare  is  highly  appreciated. 
Nevertheless,  no  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has 
ever  met  the  Gold  Beetle  or  her  larva  in  the 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

silken  purses  of  the  Bombyx.1  I  have  not 
the  slightest  hope  that  I  shall  one  day  find 
them  there  myself.  These  purses  are  in- 
habited only  in  winter,  when  the  Carabus, 
indifferent  to  food  and  overcome  by  torpor, 
lies  snugly  underground.  But  in  April, 
when  the  caterpillars  march  in  procession, 
seeking  a  good  site  for  burial  and  metamor- 
phosis, the  Beetle,  if  he  has  the  good  luck 
to  encounter  them,  must  profit  largely  by  the 
windfall. 

The  furry  nature  of  the  game  does  not  put 
him  off;  nevertheless,  the  hairiest  of  our 
caterpillars,  the  so-called  Hedgehog,2  with 
its  undulating  mane,  half-red,  half-black, 
does  seem  to  be  too  much  for  the  glutton. 
For  days  on  end  it  wanders  about  the  cage 
in  the  assassins'  society.  The  Carabi  seem 
to  ignore  its  presence.  From  time  to  time, 
one  of  them  will  stop,  circumnavigate  the 
hairy  creature,  examine  it  and  try  to  dig  into 
the  bristling  fleece.  Rebuffed  at  once  by  the 
long,  thick,  hairy  palisade,  he  retires  with- 

1  The  Pine  Processionary  is  the  caterpillar  of  the  Moth 
known  as  the  Pine  Bombyx. — Translator's  Note. 

2 The  larva  of  the  Tiger-moth  (Celonia  caja)  Cf. 
The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar:  chaps,  vi.  and  vii. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 


More  Beetles 

out  biting  to  the  quick.  Proud  and  un- 
scathed, the  caterpillar  proceeds  upon  its 
way  with  undulating  back. 

This  cannot  last.  In  a  moment  of  hunger, 
emboldened  moreover  by  the  co-operation  of 
his  fellows,  the  poltroon  decides  upn  a  seri- 
ous attack.  There  are  four  of  them,  very 
busy  around  the  Hedgehog,  which,  worried 
before  and  behind,  ends  by  succumbing.  It 
is  ripped  open  and  devoured  as  greedily  as 
any  defenceless  caterpillar  would  be. 

I  supply  my  menagerie  with  various  cater- 
pillars, naked  or  hairy,  as  I  chance  to  find 
them.  All  are  accepted  with  the  utmost 
zest,  on  the  one  condition  that  their  size  is 
not  excessive  as  compared  with  that  of  the 
murderer.  Too  small,  they  are  despised: 
the  morsel  would  not  provide  an  adequate 
mouthful.  Those  of  the  Spurge  Hawk-moth 
and  the  Great  Peacock  Moth,  for  instance, 
would  suit  the  Carabus,  were  it  not  that,  at 
the  first  bite,  the  intended  victim,  by  a  twist 
of  its  powerful  rump,  hurls  its  assailant  afar. 
After  a  few  assaults,  each  followed  by  a  dis- 
tant tumble,  the  insect  helplessly  and  regret- 
fully abandons  the  attack.  The  prey  is  too 
vigorous.  I  have  kept  the  two  sturdy  cater- 
pillars caged  with  my  savage  Beetles  for  a 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

fortnight;  and  nothing  very  serious  has  hap- 
pened to  them.  The  abrupt  intervention  of 
a  suddenly  lifted  rump  overawed  the  feroci- 
ous mandibles. 

We  will  award  a  first  good  mark  to  the 
Gold  Beetle,  for  exterminating  any  not  too 
powerful  caterpillar.  The  merit  is  spoilt  by 
one  flaw.  The  insect  is  not  a  climber:  it 
hunts  on  the  ground,  not  in  the  foliage  over- 
head. I  have  never  seen  it  explore  the  twigs 
of  the  smallest  shrub.  In  my  cages,  it  pays 
no  attention  to  the  most  enticing  quarry  fixed 
to  a  tuft  of  thyme,  a  few  inches  high.  This 
is  a  great  pity.  If  the  insect  could  only  climb 
and  undertake  overhead  raids,  how  quickly 
would  a  gang  of  three  or  four  purge  the  cab- 
bage of  its  scourge,  the  Pieris  Caterpillar! 
The  very  best  always  have  some  defect. 

The  Gold  Beetle  must  be  given  another 
good  mark  with  reference  to  Slugs.  He 
feeds  on  all  of  them,  including  even  the  big- 
gest, the  Grey  Slug,  flecked  with  dark  spots. 
The  corpulent  creature  is  soon  disposed  of, 
when  attacked  by  three  or  four  knackers. 
They  make  by  choice  for  that  part  of  the 
back  which  is  protected  by  an  inner  shell,  a 
sort  of  slab  of  mother-of-pearl  that  covers 
the  region  of  the  heart  and  lung.  The  stony 
289 


More  Beetles 

particles  of  which  the  shell  is  constructed 
abound  here  rather  than  elsewhere;  and  the 
Carabus  seems  to  like  this  mineral  condiment. 
In  the  same  way,  the  favourite  morsel  in  the 
Snail  is  the  mantle,  speckled  with  chalky  dots. 
Easily  caught  and  highly  appreciated  in  fla- 
vour, the  Slug,  crawling  at  night  towards 
the  tender  lettuces,  must  often  provide  the 
Gold  Beetles  with  a  meal.  Together  with 
the  caterpillar,  he  appears  to  be  the  Beetle's 
usual  fare. 

We  must  add  the  Earthworm,  Lumbricus 
terrestris,  often  found  outside  its  burrow  in 
rainy  weather.  Even  the  biggest  do  not  in- 
timidate the  aggressor.  I  dish  up  an  Earth- 
worm eight  inches  long  and  as  thick  as  my 
little  finger.  The  enormous  annelid  is  at- 
tacked as  soon  as  seen :  six  Carabi  come  has- 
tening up  together.  As  its  only  means  of 
defence,  the  victim  writhes  forwards  and 
backwards,  wriggling  and  rolling  upon  itself. 
The  monstrous  worm  drags  with  it,  now  on 
top  and  now  below,  the  stubborn  carvers, 
who  do  not  let  go  and  work  alternately  in 
their  normal  position  or  with  upturned  bel- 
lies. Constantly  rolling  and  pitching,  bury- 
ing itself  in  the  sand  and  reappearing,  it  does 
not  succeed  in  discouraging  them.  It  would 
290 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

be  difficult  to  find  a  parallel  to  their  tenacity. 

They  continue  to  bite  at  the  points  once 
bitten;  they  hold  tight  and  let  the  desperate 
worm  flounder  at  will,  until  the  tough, 
leathery  skin  ends  by  giving  way.  The  con- 
tents pour  forth  in  a  blood-stained  mess,  into 
which  the  gluttons  plunge  their  heads. 
Others  hurry  up  to  be  in  at  the  death;  and 
soon  the  mighty  worm  is  a  ruin  odious  to 
look  upon.  I  put  an  end  to  the  orgy,  lest 
the  gormandizers,  heavy  with  food,  should 
for  a  long  time  resist  the  experiments  which 
I  am  contemplating.  Their  frantic  feasting 
tells  me  pretty  clearly  that  they  would  finish 
the  huge  saveloy  if  I  did  not  interfere. 

To  make  amends,  I  throw  them  an  Earth- 
worm of  medium  size.  Ripped  open  at 
different  points  and  tugged  to  and  fro,  the 
worm  is  divided  into  sections  which  each 
Beetle  carries  off  as  secured  and  moves  away 
to  consume  in  seclusion.  So  long  as  the  dish 
is  not  cut  up,  the  banqueters  eat  peacefully 
among  themselves,  often  head  to  head,  with 
their  mandibles  fixed  in  the  same  wound;  but, 
so  soon  as  they  feel  that  they  have  lopped  off 
a  bit  that  suits  them,  they  hasten  to  make 
away  with  their  plunder,  far  from  any 
covetous  envy.  The  bulk  is  general  prop- 
291 


More  Beetles 

erty,  without  strife  or  contest;  but  the  par- 
ticle extracted  belongs  to  the  individual  and 
must  be  nimbly  carried  out  of  the  reach  of 
any  thievish  enterprises. 

Let  us  vary  the  provisions  as  far  as  my 
resources  will  permit.  Some  Cetoniae  (C. 
floricola)  remain  in  the  Gold  Beetles'  com- 
pany for  a  couple  of  weeks.  They  are  un- 
molested; they  are  hardly  vouchsafed  a 
passing  glance.  Does  this  mean  indifference 
to  the  particular  game?  Does  it  mean  that 
the  game  is  difficult  to  attack?  We  shall 
see.  I  remove  the  wings  and  wing-cases. 
The  news  that  there  are  cripples  about  soon 
spreads.  The  Carabi  hasten  along  and 
greedily  root  in  their  bellies.  After  a  brief 
spell,  the  Cetoniae  are  drained  dry.  The 
fare  therefore  is  deemed  excellent,  and  it 
was  the  harness  of  the  tight  wing-cases  that 
at  first  intimidated  the  ravenous  Beetles. 

The  result  is  the  same  with  the  big  Black 
Chrysomela-beetle  (Timarcha  tenebricosa} . 
The  intact  insect  is  disdained  by  the  Carabus, 
who  often  encounters  it  in  the  vivarium  and 
passes  on,  without  trying  to  open  the  hermet- 
ically sealed  meat-tin.  But,  if  I  remove  the 
wing-cases,  it  is  very  satisfactorily  devoured, 
notwithstanding  its  orange-yellow  secretions. 
292 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

Again,  the  same  Chrysomela's  fat  larva,  with 
its  delicate,  bare  skin,  makes  a  treat  for  the 
Carabus.  Its  almost  metallic,  bronze-black 
colour  causes  no  hesitation  in  the  hunter. 
As  soon  as  seen,  the  tasty  morsel  is  grabbed, 
ripped  open  and  consumed.  The  bronze 
pill  is  regarded  as  a  choice  titbit;  as  many 
are  devoured  as  I  am  able  to  serve. 

Under  the  strongly-built  roof  of  their 
wing-cases,  the  Cetonia  and  the  Black  Chry- 
somela  are  safe  from  the  attacks  of  the  Gold 
Beetle,  who  has  not  the  knack  of  forcing 
open  the  cuirass  to  reach  the  tender  abdomen. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  tin  is  less  pre- 
cisely closed,  the  ravener  finds  it  an  easy 
matter  to  lift  the  defensive  sheaths  of  his 
prey  and  attain  his  ends.  After  a  few  at- 
tempts, he  raises  the  wing-cases  of  Ceram- 
byx  cerdo  and  of  many  others  from  behind; 
he  opens  his  oyster,  pushes  aside  the  shells 
and  lays  bare  the  succulent  dainties  of  the 
abdomen.  Any  Beetle  is  accepted,  if  it  be 
possible  to  force  open  the  tin. 

I  serve  a  Great  Peacock,  fresh  from  the 
cocoon.  The  Gold  Beetle  does  not  make 
a  fierce  rush  for  the  magnificent  titbit.  He 
approaches  warily  at  intervals,  trying  to 
nibble  at  the  abdomen.  But,  at  the  first 
293 


More  Beetles 

touch  of  the  mandibles,  the  Moth  grows  ex- 
cited, beats  the  ground  with  her  wide  wings 
and,  with  a  sudden  flap,  hurls  the  aggressor 
to  a  distance.  Attack  is  impossible  with 
such  game  as  this,  for  ever  fluttering  and 
giving  vigorous  jerks.  I  cut  off  the  big 
Moth's  wings.  The  assailants  are  soon  on 
the  spot.  There  are  seven  of  them  tugging 
and  biting  the  cripple's  belly.  The  down 
flies  off  in  tufts,  the  skin  breaks  and  the  seven 
Beetles  besetting  the  quarry  dive  into  the  en- 
trails. It  is  like  a  pack  of  Wolves  devouring 
a  horse.  In  a  little  while  the  Great  Pea- 
cock is  eviscerated. 

The  Carabus  has  no  particular  liking  for 
the  Snail  (Helix  aspersa)  so  long  as  he  re- 
mains intact.  I  place  two  in  the  midst  of 
my  Beetles,  whom  a  couple  of  days'  fasting 
has  rendered  more  than  usually  enterprising. 
The  molluscs  are  enscoced  within  their 
shells;  and  these  are  stuck  into  the  sand  of 
the  cage  mouth  upwards.  The  Carabi  come 
up  and  stop  for  a  moment,  in  turns;  they 
taste  the  slime  and  at  once  go  away  in  dis- 
gust, without  insisting  further.  Slightly  bit- 
ten here  and  there,  the  Snail  foams  by  driving 
out  the  small  reserve  of  air  contained  in  his 
pulmonary  sac.  This  viscous  froth  consti- 
394 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

tutes  his  protection.  The  passing  Beetle 
who  takes  a  modest  mouthful  of  this  retires 
forthwith,  not  caring  to  dig  any  more. 

The  foamy  covering  is  highly  effective. 
I  leave  the  two  Snails  all  day  in  the  presence 
of  the  famished  Beetles.  No  disaster  be- 
falls them.  Next  morning  I  find  them  as 
fresh  and  fit  as  before.  To  save  the  Cara- 
bus  from  that  odious  froth,  I  lay  bare  the 
two  molluscs  over  an  expanse  as  wide  as  my 
thumb-nail,  removing  a  fragment  of  the  shell 
in  the  region  of  the  pulmonary  sac.  The  at- 
tack now  becomes  prompt  and  persistent. 

Five  or  six  Gold  Beetles  at  a  time  take 
their  stands  around  the  breach  that  lays  bare 
the  non-slimy  flesh.  There  would  be  more 
of  them  if  there  were  room  for  a  greater 
number,  for  some  eager  Carabi  arrive  who 
try  to  slip  in  between  the  occupants.  Above 
the  breach  a  sort  of  scrimmage  forms,  in 
which  those  nearest  the  victim  dig  and  up- 
root its  flesh,  while  the  others  look  on  or 
steal  a  bit  from  their  neighbour's  lips.  In 
one  afternoon,  the  Snail  is  emptied  almost 
to  the  bottom  of  his  spiral. 

Next  day,  when  the  carnage  is  at  its 
height,  I  remove  the  prey  and  replace  it  by 
an  untouched  Snail,  fixed  in  the  sand  with 
295 


More  Beetles 

the  opening  at  the  top.  Aroused  by  a  bath 
of  water,  the  animal  comes  out  of  its  shell, 
protruding  its  swan-like  neck  and  extending 
to  their  full  length  its  telescopic  eye-stalks, 
which  seem  quite  placidly  to  contemplate 
the  frantic  saraband  of  the  ravenous  Beetles. 
The  imminent  danger  of  evisceration  does 
not  prevent  it  from  fully  displaying  its  ten- 
der flesh,  an  easy  prey  on  which,  one  would 
think,  the  gluttons,  deprived  of  their  meat, 
will  fling  themselves  to  continue  the  inter- 
rupted feast. 

But  what  is  this?  None  of  the  Gold 
Beetles  pays  any  attention  to  the  magnificent 
quarry,  which,  swaying  with  a  wave-like  mo- 
tion, is  largely  uncovered  by  its  fortress.  If 
one  of  the  starvelings,  more  greatly  daring 
than  the  others,  ventures  to  dig  a  tooth  into 
the  mollusc,  the  Snail  contracts,  goes  indoors 
and  begins  to  foam.  This  is  enough  to  re- 
pel the  assailant.  All  the  afternoon  and  all 
night,  the  victim  remains  thus  in  the  presence 
of  five-and-twenty  disembowellers ;  and  noth- 
ing serious  happens. 

This  same  experiment,  repeated  on  sundry 

occasions,  proves  that  the  Gold  Beetle  does 

not  attack  the  unwounded  Snail,  even  when 

the  latter,  after  a  shower  of  rain,  is  crawling 

206 


The  Gold  Beetles:  Their  Food 

over  the  wet  grass,  protruding  all  the  fore- 
part of  his  body  from  the  shell.  The  Cara- 
bus  wants  cripples,  helpless  inmates  of  bro- 
ken shells;  he  wants  a  breach  which  enables 
him  to  bite  at  a  point  not  liable  to  slaver. 
In  these  circumstances,  the  "Gardener"  can 
do  little  to  restrain  the  Snail's  misdeeds. 
When  injured  by  accident,  more  or  less  badly 
crushed,  the  ravager  of  our  garden  stuff 
would  soon  die  without  the  Gold  Beetle's 
intervention. 

From  time  to  time,  to  vary  the  diet,  I  feed 
a  piece  of  butcher's  meat  to  my  charges.  The 
Carabi  eagerly  flock  around  it,  diligently 
taking  up  their  stand,  mincing  it  into  tiny 
morsels  and  devouring  it.  This  food,  un- 
known to  their  race  save  perhaps  in  the  form 
of  a  Mole  disembowelled  by  the  peasant's 
spade,  suits  them  as  well  as  does  the  cater- 
pillar. They  like  any  sort  of  meat,  except- 
ing fish-meat.  One  day  the  bill  of  fare  con- 
sisted of  a  Sardine.  The  guzzlers  came 
trotting  up,  took  a  few  mouthfuls  and  then 
withdrew  without  touching  it  again.  It  was 
too  much  of  a  novelty  for  them. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  the  cage 
is  provided  with  a  drinking-trough,  that  is 
to  say,  a  saucer  full  of  water.  The  Gold 
297 


More  Beetles 

Beetles  often  come  and  drink  at  it  after  their 
meals.  Parched  after  their  heating  diet 
and,  moreover,  daubed  all  over  with  slime 
after  cutting  up  a  Snail,  they  quench  their 
thirst  at  the  saucer,  rinse  their  mouths  and 
bathe  their  tarsi,  which  are  shod  in  sticky 
boots  heavy  with  sand.  After  this  ablution, 
they  make  for  their  shelter  under  the  bit  of 
board  and  quietly  enjoy  a  long  siesta. 


298 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE  GOLD  BEETLES  :  THEIR  NUPTIAL  HABITS 

TT  is  admitted  that,  as  an  ardent  destroyer 
•^  of  caterpillars  and  Slugs,  the  Gold  Beetle 
has  pre-eminently  earned  his  title  of  "Gar- 
dener" :  he  is  the  watchful  keeper  of  our 
kitchen-gardens  and  our  flower-borders.  If 
my  enquiries  add  nothing  to  his  established 
reputation  in  this  respect,  they  will  at  least, 
in  what  follows,  display  the  insect  in  an  as  yet 
unsuspected  light.  The  ferocious  eater,  the 
ogre  devouring  any  prey  not  beyond  his 
powers,  is  eaten  in  his  turn.  And  by  whom? 
By  his  own  kin  and  many  others. 

We  will  begin  by  naming  two  of  his  en- 
emies, the  Fox  and  the  Toad,  who,  in  hard 
times,  for  lack  of  anything  better,  do  not  dis- 
dain such  lean  and  caustic  mouthfuls.  When 
telling  the  story  of  the  Trox,  I  described 
how  the  excreta  of  the  Fox,  which  are  easily 
recognized  by  the  Rabbit's-fur  whereof  they 
largely  consist,  are  sometimes  encrusted  with 
Gold  Beetles'  wing-cases:  the  ordure  is 
299 


More  Beetles 

adorned  with  sheets  of  gold.  This  testifies 
to  the  bill  of  fare.  It  is  not  highly  nourish- 
ing nor  particularly  plentiful  and  it  tastes 
bitter;  but,  after  all,  a  few  Carabi  help  to 
stay  the  appetite  a  little. 

As  regards  the  Toad,  I  have  similar  evi- 
dence. In  summer,  in  the  garden-paths, 
from  time  to  time  I  happen  on  some  curious 
objects  whose  origin  at  first  leaves  me  quite 
undecided.  They  are  small  black  sausages, 
the  thickness  of  my  little  finger,  which  crum- 
ble very  easily  after  drying  in  the  sun.  We 
recognize  a  conglomeration  of  Ants'  heads 
and  nothing  besides,  unless  it  be  some  rem- 
nants of  slender  leg.  What  can  this  singular 
product  be,  this  granular  amalgam  consisting 
of  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  heads  packed 
close  together? 

One's  mind  turns  to  a  ball  disgorged  by 
the  Owl  after  the  nourishing  part  has  been 
sorted  by  the  stomach.  Further  reflection 
discards  the  idea:  a  nocturnal  bird  of  prey, 
though  fond  of  insects,  does  not  feed  on  such 
tiny  game  as  this.  To  catch  on  the  sticky 
tip  of  the  tongue  such  very  small  fry  and 
to  collect  them  one  by  one  calls  for  a  con- 
sumer endowed  with  plenty  of  time  and 
patience.  Who  is  it?  Could  it  be  the 
300 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

Toad?  I  see  no  other  in  the  enclosure  to 
whom  I  can  attribute  a  salmagundy  of  Ants. 
Experiment  will  solve  the  riddle  for  us. 

I  have  an  old  acquaintance  in  the  garden 
and  I  know  where  he  lives.  We  often  meet 
at  the  hour  of  my  evening  rounds.  He  looks 
at  me  with  his  gold-yellow  eyes  and  gravely 
passes  on  to  attend  to  his  business.  He  is 
a  Toad  big  enough  to  fill  a  saucer,  a  veteran 
respected  by  the  whole  household.  We  call 
him  the  Philosopher.  I  apply  to  him  to 
elucidate  the  question  of  the  conglomerations 
of  Ants'  heads. 

I  imprison  him  in  a  cage,  without  any  food, 
and  wait  until  the  contents  of  his  sated 
paunch  undergo  the  labours  of  digestion. 
Things  do  not  take  very  long.  After  a  few 
days'  time,  the  prisoner  presents  me  with  a 
specimen  of  black  ordure,  moulded  into  a 
cylinder,  exactly  resembling  those  which  I 
observe  on  the  paths  of  the  enclosure.  It 
is,  like  the  others,  an  amalgam  of  Ants' 
heads.  I  restore  the  Philosopher  to  liberty. 
Thanks  to  him,  the  problem  which  puzzled 
me  so  greatly  is  solved:  I  know  for  certain 
that  the  Toad  is  a  great  eater  of  Ants,  a  very 
small  quarry,  it  is  true,  but  easy  to  collect 
and  inexhaustible. 

301 


More  Beetles 

It  is  not  always  a  free  choice  on  his  part. 
He  prefers  larger  mouthfuls  when  available. 
He  lives  mainly  on  Ants  because  they  abound 
in  the  enclosure,  whereas  the  other  insects 
running  on  the  surface  of  the  ground  are 
comparatively  scarce.  If  occasionally  the 
glutton  finds  more  sumptuous  fare,  he  appre- 
ciates the  feast  all  the  more  highly. 

In  evidence  of  these  unusual  banquets,  I 
will  mention  certain  dejecta  found  in  the  en- 
closure and  composed  almost  entirely  of 
Gold  Beetles'  wing-cases.  The  remainder  of 
the  product,  the  paste  joining  the  golden 
scales  together,  consisted  of  Ants'  heads,  the 
authentic  work  of  the  consumer.  So  the 
Toad  feeds  on  Carabi  when  he  has  the  op- 
portunity. He,  our  garden  helper,  robs  us 
of  another  helper  no  less  valuable.  The 
useful,  from  our  point  of  view,  destroys  the 
useful:  a  little  lesson  which  should  modify 
our  ingenuous  belief  that  all  things  are  cre- 
ated for  our  service. 

There  is  worse  to  come.  The  Gold  Beetle, 
the  policeman  who,  in  our  gardens,  keeps  an 
eye  on  the  misdeeds  of  the  caterpillar  and 
the  Slug,  is  guilty  of  the  vice  of  cannibalism. 
One  day,  in  the  shadow  of  the  plane-trees 
outside  my  door,  I  see  one  passing  very 
302 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

busily.  The  pilgrim  is  welcome :  he  will  in- 
crease by  one  the  colony  in  my  vivarium. 
As  I  capture  him,  I  perceive  that  the  tips  of 
his  wing-cases  are  slightly  damaged.  Is  this 
the  result  of  a  fight  between  rivals?  There 
is  nothing  to  tell  me.  The  great  thing  is 
that  the  Beetle  should  not  be  handicapped  by 
a  serious  injury.  I  examine  him,  find  that 
he  is  unwounded  and  fit  for  service  and  put 
him  among  the  twenty-five  occupants  of  the 
glass  cage. 

Next  day,  I  look  for  the  new  inmate.  He 
is  dead.  His  comrades  have  attacked  him 
during  the  night  and  cleaned  out  his  abdo- 
men, which  was  inadequately  protected  by 
the  injured  wing-cases.  The  operation  was 
very  neatly  done,  without  any  mutilation. 
Legs,  head,  corselet  are  all  in  their  right 
places;  only  the  abdomen  has  a  wide  opening 
through  which  its  contents  have  been  re- 
moved. What  we  see  is  a  sort  of  golden 
shell  formed  of  two  connected  wing-cases. 
An  Oyster-shell  emptied  of  its  mollusc  looks 
no  cleaner. 

This  result  astonishes  me,  for  I  take  very 
good  care  that  the  cage  is  never  without  pro- 
visions. The  Snail,  the  Cockchafer,  the 
Praying  Mantis,  the  Earthworm,  the  cater- 
303 


More  Beetles 

pillar  and  other  favourite  dishes  alternate  in 
my  refectory  in  more  than  sufficient  quanti- 
ties. My  Gold  Beetles  therefore  had  not 
the  excuse  of  hunger  in  devouring  a  brother 
whose  damaged  armour  lent  itself  to  easy 
attack. 

Can  it  be  their  custom  to  finish  off  the 
wounded  and  to  ransack  the  stomach  of  an 
injured  kinsman?  Pity  is  unknown  among 
the  insects.  At  the  sight  of  the  desperate 
struggles  of  a  crippled  relation,  not  one  of 
the  same  race  will  stop,  not  one  will  try  to 
help  him.  With  carnivorous  insects,  mat- 
ters may  take  an  even  more  tragic  turn. 
Sometimes  the  passers-by  will  run  up  to  the 
invalid.  Do  they  do  so  in  order  to  assist 
him?  Not  at  all:  they  do  it  to  see  what  he 
tastes  like  and,  if  they  find  him  good,  to  cure 
his  ills  thoroughly  by  devouring  him. 

It  is  therefore  possible  that  the  Carabus 
with  the  damaged  wing-cases  tempted  his 
comrades  by  the  sight  of  his  partly  denuded 
body.  They  saw  in  their  helpless  brother  a 
prey  which  it  was  lawful  to  dissect.  But  do 
they  respect  one  another  when  there  is  no 
previous  injury?  At  first  sight,  everything 
would  seem  to  show  that  their  relations  are 
very  peaceful.  There  is  never  any  scuffling 
304 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

between  the  feasters  at  their  meals,  nothing 
but  mouth-to-mouth  robberies.  Nor  are 
there  any  quarrels  during  the  long  siestas 
under  the  cover  of  the  board.  Half-buried 
in  the  cool  earth,  my  five-and-twenty  speci- 
mens quietly  slumber  and  digest  their  food, 
at  no  great  distance  one  from  the  other, 
each  in  his  little  trench.  If  I  take  away  the 
shelter,  they  awake,  make  off,  run  hither  and 
thither,  constantly  meeting  without  molesting 
one  another. 

Profound  peace  therefore  prevails  and 
seems  likely  to  last  for  ever  when,  on  inspect- 
ing the  cage  during  the  first  heats  of  June,  I 
find  a  dead  Carabus.  His  limbs  are  intact; 
he  is  very  neatly  reduced  to  a  mere  golden 
husk;  he  shows  us  once  more  what  we  saw 
in  the  helpless  Beetle  who  was  lately  de- 
voured; he  reminds  us  of  the  shell  of  the 
eaten  Oyster.  I  examine  the  remains.  But 
for  the  huge  breach  in  the  abdomen,  all  is  as 
it  should  be.  So  the  insect  was  in  good 
health  when  the  others  gutted  it. 

A  few  days  later,  yet  another  Carabus  is 
slain  and  treated  like  the  others,  with  all  the 
various  pieces  of  the  armour  undisturbed. 
If  we  lay  him  on  his  belly,  he  seems  as 
though  intact;  if  we  lay  him  on  his  back,  he 
305 


More  Beetles 

is  hollow,  without  a  scrap  of  flesh  left  inside 
his  carapace.  A  little  later  I  find  another 
empty  relic,  then  another,  and  yet  another, 
until  my  menagerie  is  rapidly  diminishing. 
If  this  frenzied  slaughter  continues,  I  shall 
soon  have  nothing  left  in  the  vivarium. 

Can  it  be  that  my  Gold  Beetles,  worn  out 
by  age,  die  a  natural  death  or  that  the  fe- 
males batten  on  the  corpses,  or  is  the  popu- 
lation being  reduced  at  the  expense  of  hale 
and  hearty  subjects?  It  is  not  easy  to  eluci- 
date the  matter,  for  the  disembowelling 
usually  takes  place  at  night.  Nevertheless, 
by  exerting  vigilance,  I  twice  succeed  in  ob- 
serving the  autopsy  by  daylight. 

In  the  middle  of  June,  before  my  eyes  a 
female  sets  to  work  upon  a  male,  whom  I 
recognize  as  such  by  his  rather  smaller  size. 
The  operation  begins.  Lifting  the  ends  of 
the  wing-cases,  the  assailant  seizes  her  vic- 
tim by  the  tip  of  the  abdomen,  on  the  dorsal 
surface.  Eagerly  she  tugs  and  munches. 
The  captive,  though  in  the  pink  of  condition, 
does  not  defend  himself,  does  not  turn  round. 
He  pulls  his  hardest  in  the  opposite  direction, 
to  release  himself  from  the  terrible  mandi- 
bles; he  moves  this  way  or  that,  according 
as  he  is  dragging  his  aggressor  or  being 
306 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

dragged  by  her;  and  here  his  resistance  ends. 
The  combat  lasts  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Other  Beetles  passing  by,  stop,  as  though  to 
say: 

"My  turn  next." 

At  last,  redoubling  his  efforts,  the  male 
frees  himself  and  escapes.  No  doubt,  if  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  getting  away,  he  would 
have  had  his  belly  gutted  by  the  fearsome 
dame. 

A  few  days  later  I  witness  a  similar  scene, 
but  this  time  the  tragedy  is  completed.  Once 
more  it  is  a  female  who  seizes  a  male  from 
behind.  The  bitten  one  submits  with  no 
more  protest  than  his  vain  efforts  to  release 
himself.  The  skin  at  last  gives  way,  the 
wound  widens,  the  viscera  are  rooted  out  and 
swallowed  by  the  matron,  who  empties  the 
carapace  with  her  head  buried  in  her  com- 
peer's belly.  The  tremors  of  the  poor 
wretch's  legs  announce  his  approaching  end. 
The  murderess  takes  no  notice  and  continues 
to  rummage  as  far  up  as  the  narrow  entrance 
to  the  thorax  allows  her  to  go.  Nothing  is 
left  of  the  deceased  but  the  wing-cases, 
packed  boat-wise,  and  the  fore-part  of  the 
body,  which  is  not  disjointed.  The  empty 
remains  are  abandoned  where  they  lie. 
307 


More  Beetles 

So  must  have  perished  the  Gold  Beetles, 
always  males,  whose  relics  I  find  from  time 
to  time  in  the  cage;  thus  the  survivors  too 
must  perish.  Between  the  middle  of  June 
and  the  first  of  August,  the  inmates,  num- 
bering twenty-five  at  the  outset,  are  reduced 
to  five  females.  All  the  twenty  males  have 
disappeared,  ripped  open  and  drained  dry. 
And  by  whom?  Apparently  by  the  females. 

This  is  borne  out  by  the  two  assaults  which 
chance  permitted  me  to  witness;  twice,  in 
broad  daylight,  I  saw  the  female  devour  the 
male  after  opening  his  belly  under  the  wing- 
cases,  or  at  least  trying  to  do  so.  As  for 
the  rest  of  the  murders,  though  direct  obser- 
vation be  lacking,  I  have  one  very  valuable 
piece  of  evidence.  As  we  have  seen,  the 
captive  does  not  retaliate,  does  not  defend 
himself;  he  merely  strives  to  escape  by  pull- 
ing as  hard  as  he  can. 

If  it  were  a  simple  fight,  an  ordinary  scuffle 
such  as  life's  rivalries  may  lead  to,  the  Beetle 
attacked  would  obviously  turn  round,  since 
he  is  in  a  position  to  do  so;  in  a  close  tussle, 
he  would  retort  on  the  aggressor  and  give 
bite  for  bite.  His  strength  enables  him  to 
wage  a  battle  which  might  turn  to  his  advan- 
tage; and  the  fool  allows  his  rump  to  be 
308 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

gnawed  with  impunity.  It  looks  as  though 
an  invincible  repugnance  prevents  him  from 
retaliating  by  eating  a  bit  of  her  who  is  eat- 
ing him. 

This  tolerance  reminds  me  of  the  Langue- 
docian  Scorpion,1  who,  after  his  wedding, 
allows  himself  to  be  devoured  by  his  mate 
without  using  his  weapon,  the  poisoned  sting 
which  is  quite  capable  of  killing  the  virago; 
it  reminds  me  of  the  Praying  Mantis'  swain, 
who  is  sometimes  reduced  to  a  mere  stump 
and,  in  spite  of  all,  continues  his  unfinished 
work  while  he  is  being  chewed  in  little  mouth- 
fuls,  without  the  least  expression  of  revolt.2 
These  are  nuptial  rites  against  which  the 
male  is  not  entitled  to  protest. 

The  males  in  my  collection  of  Gold 
Beetles,  from  the  first  to  the  last  eviscerated, 
tell  us  of  similar  habits.  They  are  the  vic- 
tims of  their  mates  when  these  have  had  their 
fill  of  matrimony.  During  four  months, 
from  April  to  July,  couples  form  daily,  some- 
times only  tentatively,  sometimes  and  more 
often  concluding  in  effective  pairing.  There 

1  The  seven  essays  on  the  Languedocian  Scorpion  will 
appear  in  the  final  volume  of  the  series,  entitled  The 
Life  of  the  Scorpion. — Translator's  Note. 

2Cf.     The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:   chaps,  vi.  to  ix. 
and,  in  particular,  chap.  vii. — Translator's  Note. 
309 


More  Beetles 

is  no  end  to  it  with  these  fiery  temperaments. 

The  Carabus  is  expeditious  in  his  love- 
affairs.  A  male  passing  in  the  crowd  flings 
himself  upon  a  female,  the  first  that  comes, 
without  any  previous  flirting.  The  she  thus 
bestridden  lifts  her  head  a  little  as  a  sign  of 
acquiesence,  while  her  rider  whips  her  neck 
with  the  tips  of  his  antennae.  When  the 
coupling  is  finished — and  it  does  not  take 
long — the  two  separate  abruptly,  recuperate 
their  strength  by  a  mouthful  of  the  Snail 
served  up  for  their  food,  after  which  they 
both  get  married  again,  the  wedding  being 
repeated  so  long  as  males  remain  available. 
After  feasting,  a  brutal  wooing;  after  the 
wooing,  more  feasting:  this  sums  up  the 
Gold  Beetle's  life. 

The  ladies  in  my  menagerie  were  not  in 
proportion  to  the  number  of  suitors:  there 
were  five  females  to  twenty  males.  No  mat- 
ter: there  was  no  rivalry,  no  exchange  of 
blows;  a  most  peaceful  use  and  abuse  was 
made  of  the  passing  fair.  With  this  mutual 
tolerance,  sooner  or  later,  many  times  over 
and  according  to  the  chance  of  the  en- 
counters, each  one  finds  the  wherewithal  to 
satisfy  his  ardour. 

I  should  have  preferred  a  more  evenly 
310 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

divided  assembly.  Luck,  not  choice,  gave 
me  that  which  I  had  at  my  disposal.  I  col- 
lected in  early  spring  all  the  Gold  Beetles 
that  I  could  find  under  the  stones  around, 
without  distinction  of  sex,  which  is  not  easy 
to  recognize  merely  by  external  character- 
istics. Afterwards,  as  I  reared  them  in  my 
cages,  I  learnt  that  a  slight  excess  in  size  was 
the  distinctive  sign  of  the  females.  My  me- 
nagerie, so  unequal  in  the  numerical  relation 
of  the  sexes,  was  therefore  a  fortuitous  re- 
sult. It  seems  likely  that  this  proportion  of 
males  does  not  exist  under  natural  conditions. 

On  the  other  hand,  such  numerous  groups 
are  never  seen  at  liberty,  sheltered  under  the 
same  stone.  The  Gold  Beetle  leads  an  al- 
most solitary  life;  it  is  rare  to  find  two  or 
three  gathered  at  one  spot.  The  assembly 
in  my  menagerie  is  therefore  exceptional, 
although  it  does  not  lead  to  disorder.  There 
is  plenty  of  room  in  the  glass  cage  for  dis- 
tant rambles  and  for  all  the  usual  diversions. 
He  who  wants  to  be  alone  remains  alone;  he 
who  wants  company  soon  finds  it. 

For  that  matter,  captivity  does  not  seem 

to  trouble  them  unduly,  as  is  shown  by  the 

frequent  feasting  and  their  daily  repeated 

mating.     They  could  thrive  no  better  if  at 

3" 


More  Beetles 

liberty  in  the  fields :  perhaps  they  would  not 
thrive  so  well,  for  food  is  not  so  abundant 
there  as  in  the  cage.  As  regards  comfort, 
therefore,  the  prisoners  are  in  a  normal  con- 
dition favouring  the  preservation  of  their 
usual  habits. 

Only,  meetings  of  kinsfolk  occur  more 
often  here  than  in  the  open.  This,  no  doubt, 
affords  the  females  better  opportunities  to 
persecute  the  males  for  whom  they  have  no 
further  use,  to  grab  them  by  the  rump  and 
disembowel  them.  This  hunting  of  the  by- 
gone lovers  is  aggravated  but  certainly  not 
innovated  by  the  too  close  vicinity:  such  cus- 
toms are  never  improvised. 

When  the  mating  is  over,  a  female  meet- 
ing a  male  in  the  open  must  then  treat  him 
as  fair  game  and  munch  him  up  in  order  to 
close  the  matrimonial  rites.  I  have  turned 
over  many  stones  but  have  never  chanced 
upon  this  spectacle ;  no  matter :  what  I  saw  in 
the  cage  is  enough  to  convince  me.  What  a 
world  the  Gold  Beetle  lives  in,  where  the 
matron  devours  her  partner  when  she  no 
longer  needs  him  to  fertilize  her  ovaries! 
And  how  lightly  do  the  laws  of  creation  hold 
the  males,  to  allow  them  to  be  butchered  in 
this  way! 

312 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

Are  these  fits  of  cannibalism  following 
upon  love  widely  distributed?  For  the  mo- 
ment I  know  only  three  really  characteristic 
examples:  those  of  the  Praying  Mantis,  the 
Languedocian  Scorpion  and  the  Golden 
Carabus.  The  horror  of  the  lover  con- 
verted into  prey  is  also  found  in  the  Locus- 
tian  tribe,  though  accompanied  by  less  brutal- 
ity, for  the  victim  devoured  is  now  a  dead 
and  not  a  living  insect.  The  female  of  the 
White-faced  Decticus x  is  quite  willing  to 
nibble  a  leg  of  the  defunct  male.  The  Green 
Grasshopper  2  behaves  likewise. 

To  a  certain  degree  the  nature  of  the  diet 
acts  as  an  excuse:  Dectici  and  Grasshoppers 
are  first  and  foremost  carnivores.  Coming 
upon  a  corpse  of  their  own  species,  the  ma- 
trons consume  it  more  or  less  thoroughly, 
even  if  it  be  that  of  last  night's  lover.  Con- 
sidered as  game,  one  is  as  good  as  another. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  vegetarians? 
As  the  laying-season  approaches,  the  Ephip- 
piger  turns  upon  her  companion,  still  full  of 
life,  and  bites  him,  makes  a  hole  in  his  belly 
and  eats  as  much  of  him  as  her  appetite  al- 

1  Cf.   The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:  chaps,  xi.  to  xiii. 
and,   in   particular,  chap.  xi. — Translator's  Note. 

2  Cf.  idem:  chap.  xiv. — Translator's  Note. 

313 


More  Beetles 

lows.  The  easy-going  Cricket  suddenly  de- 
velops a  shrewish  character:  she  beats  the 
mate  who  lately  wooed  her  in  such  impas- 
sioned serenades;  she  rends  his  wings,  breaks 
his  fiddle  and  even  goes  so  far  as  to  tear  a 
few  mouthfuls  from  the  musician.1  So  it 
seems  probable  that  this  mortal  aversion  of 
the  female  for  the  male  after  the  pairing  is 
fairly  common,  especially  among  the  carniv- 
orous insects.  What  is  the  reason  of  these 
atrocious  habits?  If  circumstances  favour 
me,  I  shall  not  fail  to  investigate  it. 

Of  the  whole  colony  in  the  cage  I  have 
five  females  left  at  the  beginning  of  August. 
Their  conduct  has  changed  greatly  since  the 
eating  of  the  males.  Food  has  become  in- 
different to  them.  They  no  longer  run  up 
to  the  Snail,  whom  I  serve  half-stripped  of 
his  shell;  they  scorn  the  plump  Mantis  and 
the  Caterpillar,  their  erstwhile  delights;  they 
doze  under  the  shelter  of  the  board  and 
rarely  show  themselves.  Can  this  mean 
preparation  for  the  laying?  I  enquire  into 
this  day  by  day,  being  most  anxious  to  see 
the  first  appearance  of  the  little  larvae,  an 
artless  first  appearance,  deprived  of  all  so- 

1  Cf.    The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper:  chap.  xvi. — Trans- 
lator's Note. 

314 


Gold  Beetles:  Their  Nuptial  Habits 

licitude,  as  I  foresee  from  the  lack  of  indus- 
try in  the  mother. 

I  wait  in  vain :  there  is  no  laying.  Mean- 
while the  cool  nights  of  October  arrive. 
Four  females  perish,  this  time  by  a  natural 
death. 

The  survivor  takes  no  notice  of  them. 
She  refuses  them  burial  in  her  stomach,  a 
burial  at  one  time  accorded  to  the  males, 
dissected  alive.  She  cowers  as  deep  down 
in  the  ground  as  the  scanty  earth  of  the  cage 
permits.  In  November,  when  Mont  Ven- 
toux  is  white  with  the  first  snows,  she  grows 
torpid  in  her  hiding-place.  Let  us  hence- 
forth leave  her  in  peace.  She  will  live 
through  the  winter,  everything  seems  to  tell 
us,  and  produce  her  eggs  next  spring. 


Index 


Acherontia  atropos,  (see 
Death's  Hawk-Moth) 

Adder,  35,  39 

JEgosonia,  (see  Ae  scrab- 
ricorne),  191,  204,  328 

Aleochra  fuscipes,  49 

African  Leguminosa,  (see 
Archis) 

African    Scarabus,   247 

Ajaccio,  247 

Algeria,  247 

Alstreemeria  pelegrina,  (ste 
Inca  Lily) 

A.  mos chat  a,  (see  Rose- 
scented  Aromia) 

Anoxia,  24,   53,  213 

Anthophorae,  2,  86 

Ants,    300,    301 

Apicus,  Maccus  Gabiusj, 
178 

Arachis,   210 

Ariadne,   72 

Atenchus,  259 

Attelabus   Beetle,   223 


B 

Baucis,    98 

Beaded    Trox,    55-71 

Bees,  2,  3,  86,  242,  243,  265, 

273 
Bison   Ortis,   126 


Big-Jawed    Staphlinus,   49, 

54 

Bitter  Sweet,  225 
Black-berried     Nightshade, 

225 

Black  Chrysomela,  293 
Bolboceras,  203,  205 
Bossuet,  Jacques  B.,  282 
Brachycerus  algirus,  226 
Brillat-Savarin,     Anthelme, 

183 

Broad-necked   Scarab,    258 
Bruchus,  216 
Buprestes,  198,  216 
Burrow,    The,    (sfe   Mino- 

taurus    Typhceus) 
Burying  Beetle,  42,  47 
Butterfly,  3,  4,  264 


Cabbage  Butterfly,  3,  4 

Candide,  167 

Capricorn,  175,  176,  178, 
187,  188,  189,  191,  199, 
203,  204,  205,  207,  208, 
209,  228,  234,  235,  264, 
293 

Carabus,  63,   198,  216 

Carabus  auratus,  (see  Gold 
Beetle) 

Caterpillar,  216,  278,  289, 
299,  3»4 


317 


Index 

C.     aurata,      (see     Golden 

D 

Cetonia) 
Cave-bear,  281 
Celonia    caja,     (see    Tiger 

Dante,  163 
Dark-Brown    Cetonia,     15, 
Datura,   224 

Moth) 
Cerambyx-beetles,   203,   231 

Death's-head   Hawk   Moth, 

22_1      22  C 

Cerambyx       credo,        (see 
Small    Capricorn) 
Cerambyx       heros,        (see 

-£<£4,    4~$ 

Decticus,  206,  207 
Dermestis,    42-46 
Devil's    Coach    Horse,    50, 

Great  Capricorn) 

54 

Cerceres,  216 

D.  Frischii,  42 

Cetonia;,       1-33,       146-198, 

Dipteron,   266 

212,   248,   251-256,  290 

Dore,  Gustave,  51 

Cetonia   floricola,   248,   290 

Double-fruited    Vetch,    211 

Cheese-rennet,  (see  Galium 

Draba    verna,    (see    Whit- 

verum), 228 

low  grass) 

Choleva  tristis,  70 

D.  undulatus,  42 

Chondrilla  jubcea,   228 

Dung  Beetles,  9,  66,  97,  114, 

Chrysomela,    227,    290-293 

120,    149,    154,    156,    158, 

Cicada;,   199,  206,  209 

164,    237,   239,   242,   243, 

Cichoriacea,  228 

259 

C.    Melallica,    (see    Metal- 

lic Cetonia) 

E 

C.  mono,  (see  Dark  Brown 
Cetonia) 

Earthworm,  216,  290,  291, 

Common    Capricorn,    190 

E.    Gerardiana,    (see   Ger- 

Cock-chafer,   24,    25,    213, 

ard's    Spurge) 

2  1  6,  303 
Common    Cockchafer,    (see 
White  Worm),  213 
Corpris    (Corpria),   66,   85, 

Egg-plant,  225 
Ephippiges,  206,  313 
Ergates  faber,  187-191,  204, 
228 

96,  144,  156,  205 

Eritales,  2 

Cossus,    172-187,    228 

Etna,  72,   74 

Cricket,   206,  207,  227,   314 

Euphorbia    characias,    225 

Gruciferte,  226 

Euphorbia    serata,    226 

Csmidae,   136 

C.    stictica,    (see    Funeral- 

pall  Cetonia 

Filed  Cricket,  227 

Cut-leaved     Podospermum, 

Fly,  34,  39,  4°,  4i>  217,  ^66 

228 

Fox,  64,  67,  70,  75,  299 

318 


Index 


Frlsch's  Dermtstes,  44 
Fuller     Beetle,     (see    Pine 

Cockchafer) 
Fulvius    Hirpinus,    181 
Funeral-pall     Cetonia,     15, 

24,    25,   26 


Galium  verum,  228 
Garden  Spider,  209 
Gardener,  The,  (see  Gold 

Beetle) 
Geotrupes,    60,    68,   73,    92, 

95,  98,  99,  146,  223,  256, 

258,  273 

Gerards's  Spurge,  226,  228 
Gilbert,    Nkholas,   J    &   L, 

1 66 

Gold   Beetle,   278-312 
Golden  Carabus,  63,  216 
Golden  Cetonia,  15,  25,  30, 

33 

Golden  Rhynchites,  216 
Grasshoppers,  227,  313 
Great  Capricorn,  175,  176, 

178,    187,    188,    189,    191, 

203,   209,  234,  235 
Great   Peacock   Moth,   288, 

293 

Green   Grasshopper,   313 
Grey  Flesh-Fly,  34,  39,  40, 

41 

Grey  Slug,  289 
Guele,  270 

Gueule-de-loup,  (see  Snap- 
dragon) 
Gum-succory,    (see    Chron- 

drilla  jubcea) 
Gymnopleurui,  96,  259,  261 


H 

Half-spotted    Scarab,    358 
Halictus  zebra,  265 
Hedgehog,       (see      Tiger- 
Moth) 

Helexaspersa,    (see    Snail) 
Hemipteron,  47,  48 
Henbane,   224 
Hive-bee,   3 
Huber,   Frangois,   86 
Hunting  Wasp,  242 

I 

Inca  Lily,  273 
Iris  Beetle,  273 
Iris-weevil,  216,  262 

J 

Journeyman        Blacksmith, 
(see  Ergates) 


Languedocian  Scorpion,  309, 

3i3 

Legumonosa-,  211,  228 
Leopard  Moth,  229 
Les   Cloches  de  Corneville, 

208,  209 
linnams,  34 
Locusts,  136,  227,  263,  273, 

317 
Longicorn,    178,    191,    192, 

235,  264,  265,  273 
Long   Horned   Beetle,    (see 

Longicorn) 
Lucilitf,  40,  41 
Lumbricus     terestris,     (set 

Earthworm) 


319 


Index 


M 

Machaon,  (see  Swallowtail 

Butterfly) 

Mantis,   24,   53,  216,   314 
Marcus     Vitruvius     Pollio, 

268 
Me  die  ago      falcata,       (see 

Yellow   Medick) 
Melecta,   2 
Melolantha  fullo,  (ste  Pine 

Cockchafer) 
Metallic  Cetonia,  8,  15,  16, 

25 
Minotaur,    (see  Minotaurus 

Typhoeus) 
Minotaurus    Typhoeus,    72- 

171,  238,  246 
Minos's  Bull,  72 
Mole,  44,  49,  54,  55,  56,  57, 

58 

Mont  Ventoux,  263,  312    • 
Moths,  3,  58,  224,  225,  229, 

264,  287,  288,  290,  293 
Mufle,  270 

Muflier,  (see  Snap-dragon) 
Myoditfs    sudbipteus,    265, 

273  N 

Necrophorus,  (see  Burying- 

beetle) 
Necydalis  major,  264,  265, 

273 

Nut-weevil,  216 
Nux  vomica,  226 
N.  vestigator,  (see  Burying 

Beetle) 


Oak-worm,  175 
Onthophagi,      (see      Dung 
Beetle) 


Orange-berried  Nightshade, 

225 

Ortalons,  178,   179 
Oryctes      nasicornis,      (see 

Rhinoceros  Beetle) 
Osmia,  2 


Panurge,  134 

Pedestrian  Locust,  273 

Personatae,  272 

Pezzotettyx  pedestris,   263 

Philemon,  98 

Pierio  Caterpillar,  289 

Pine  Bombyx,  286 

Pine    Caterpillar,    278 

Pine    Cockchafer,    194-214 

Pine  Processionary,  (see 
Pine  Bombyx) 

P.  laciniatum,  (set  Cut- 
leaved  Podospermum) 

Pliny,  174,  176,  181,  182, 
195,  196,  197 

Pock-marked    Scarab,    258 

Polistes,   3 

Praying  Mantis,    303,    309, 

3»3 

Protozoan,  236 

Psyches,   264 

Pterotheca  nemansensis,  228 

Pubiaces,  228 


Rabbit,  64,  67,  70,  75 
Reaumer,    Rene    A.    F.   de, 

34,  35,  225 
Reduvius,  47 
Rhinoceros  Beetle,  n,  24, 

25,  198,  212 
Rosacese,  229 
Rose,  267 


320 


Index 


Rose-chafer,     (see    Golden 

Cetonia) 

Rose-scented    Aromia,    204 
Roover  Beetle,  (see  Staphy- 

lini) 

S 

Saprini,   34-42 

Sarcophaga,  41 

Sardine,  297 

Saperdae,  235,  237 

S.     carnarla,     (see     Grey- 

Flesh-fly),  34,  39,  40,  41 
Scorpion,   114,   309,   313 
Scarabus,  66,  247,  258,  259, 

261,  273 

Scalary    Saperda,   229 
S.  detersus,  40 
Serignan,  247 
Sesiae,   3 

Shagreen  Saperda,  229 
Sheep    Scarab,    (see   Mino- 

taurus  Typhceus) 
Silpha,  45,  46 
Sisyphus,   96,  261 
Slug,  216,  289,  299 
Small   Capricorn,   204,   208, 

228,    231,   235,    264,    293 
Snapdragon,   270 
Spanish  corpris,  203 

melongena,     (see     Egg 


Spider,  114,  209 
Spotted  Larinus,  216 
Spotted   Sapera,   229 
Spotted   Saprinus,    37 
Spurred   Alydus,  47,  48 
Spurge,  225,  226,  288 
Spurge    Hawk-Moth,    225, 

288 

S.  rugosa,  46 
S.  sinuaia,  46 
Stag-beetle,    175,   176,    199 
Staphylini,   48,   49,    50,    54, 

266,  273 
Staphylinus  maxillossus,  49, 

54 
Stercoraceous        Gestrupes, 

218,  219 
,  Stinking     Staphylinus,     50, 

54 

S.  subnitidus,  40 
Subterranean     Vetch,     (see 

Double-Fruited    Vetch 
S.    villosum,    (see    Orange- 
berried   Nightshade) 
Swallowtail  Butterfly,  4 


Te 

Theseus,  72,  73 
73 


S.     meiongena,     (see     r,ss      Tiger-Moth,   287 

_  Fjfnt)  Timor cha  tenfbricosia, 

Snail,    294,    295,    296,    298, 

303,  3io,  314 

S.  nigrum,  (see  Black-ber- 
ried Nightshade) 

Solanum  lycopersicum,  (see 
Tomato) 

Solanacea,  224 

Solanum,  225 

5.  o/<w,  (^  Stinking 
Staphlinus) 


Chysomela-beetle) 
Tinea,  58 
T.    perlatus,    (see    Beaded 

Trox) 

Toad,  229,  300,  301 
Tobacco,  224 
Tomato,  225 
Trifolium       repens,       (see 

White  Clover) 


321 


Index 


Typhoeus,   (see  Typon) 
Typon,  72 


V'tcia     amphicarpos,.    (see 

Double-Fruited    Vetch) 
Vitrince,   53 
Voltaire,   167 

W 

Wasps,  3,  242,  243,  265 
Wavy  Dermetes,  43,  44 
Weevils,  216,  317 


White  Clover,  228 
White-faced   Decticus,   313 
White    Worm,    (see    Com- 
mon   Cockchafer) 
Whitlow  Grass,  253 
Wrinkled   Silpha,  46 


Yellow  Medick,  228 


Zeuzera,       (see      Leopard 
Moth) 


yese  LIBRARY 


000  460  783 


